Contumely
by apeacockpersian
Summary: Martin Septim and Lucien Lachance become unwittingly entangled in romances, disasters, and guild rivalries when the Nerevarine is ordered to counsel a wayward and tactless Hero of Kvatch on the finer points of saving the world.
1. Chapter 1

**CONTUMELY**

**Chapter One**

_Hero of Kvatch_. It was a lofty title.

Well, to Druzelle, anyway.

In truth, the twenty-two year old Imperial once thought that adventurers were lowly, grimy peasants who drank stale beer from tin steins and told stories of exploits that truthfully weren't nearly as valiant. She was right, in part. As the daughter of an affluent but otherwise unremarkable and untitled merchant who traded with every realm from Elsweyr to High Rock, Druzelle was raised on caviar and embroidered silks. That was, until she was ousted from the Dissentia family.

It was a good story, really- though not a very happy one. With a preoccupied father unable to supervise her and a dead mother, Druzelle could get away with any petty crime she wanted- and pay off the authorities whenever they got their filthy gauntlets all over her case. She exploited that privilege endlessly, and dabbled in every dastardly deed she could imagine. Murder, however, was probably not her most ingenious plan.

In retrospect, it had gone horribly wrong for Druzelle, and even worse for her ill-fated friend. Had Druzelle known that someone had secretly coated her dagger with poison, and listened to the coaxing of her two-sided friends, she would never have entered the damned bar fight. She didn't mean to kill him, after all. But when it was over, her Bosmer combatant lie writhing on the floor as the poison coursed through his veins and stopped the beating of his heart. What would have been a single charge of assault became a trial of murder. Someone had orchestrated her capture, someone with a sick sense of vigilante justice, willing to see an unlucky wood elf die if it meant that Druzelle was finally locked away where she belonged.

The authorities, and Druzelle's father, weren't about to tolerate the young woman's behavior any longer. Despite her passionate protests, Druzelle was sentenced to the Imperial Prison, sent away from her city with only stale beer in a tin stein to keep her company.

Yet surprisingly, her misfortune _was_ to her fortune. She soon found herself on the other side of the Prison, covered in muck from the sewers and clad in rags, with the Amulet of Kings clenched in her hand. She had been christened an adventurer, and embraced her new life, took up arms as a warrior, and later sprinted off to Kvatch to close the Oblivion gate and be proclaimed a hero, all the while entering the Dark Brotherhood and serving as an assassin of the Night Mother.

That, of course, was not the end of her story. One lasting thing remained from her previous life that she hadn't ever erased: her waywardness, to put it mildly. It was under this circumstance that Druzelle Dissentia, warrior and sister of the Dark Brotherhood, would find herself in Chancellor Ocato's office.

"Please take a seat, Miss Dissentia."

The Imperial woman eyed Chancellor Ocato dubiously before she plopped into the wooden armchair in front of the Altmer's desk. Ocato cleared his throat, setting the exquisite plume of his quill back into the inkwell. The wrinkles on the Chancellor's brow deepened as his expression morphed from one of complacency to one of almost comical vehemence. The woman's eyes narrowed.

"I believe you know why you are here, Miss Dissentia," Ocato began.

"It's _Druzelle_," she corrected.

The Altmer breezed on, "You are the esteemed Hero of Kvatch, closer of Oblivion gates, and quickly becoming a figure _much_ in the public eye of Cyrodiil, _Miss Dissentia_."

Druzelle's shoulders sank with ire, as she ran a restless hand through her stringy, burgundy locks.

"You know quite well then, I assume," Ocato continued, "that counts and countesses alike seek your aid in closing the Oblivion gates outside their cities' walls. Of course, this puts you in _very_ close proximity to people of political power."

"_I get it_," Druzelle snarled, "It put me in proximity to _you_, didn't it? I must be doing _something_ right."

"On the contrary, Miss Dissentia, you are doing something very _wrong_, which is why I commanded Jauffre to send you to me," Ocato answered, "Rallying beggars against the nobility? Stealing? Lighting all of the bridges in Cheydinhal on fire? Sporting the armor of the Dark Brotherhood while doing all of the aforementioned activities? I won't ask how you obtained it, and don't tell me. Listen, you are giving yourself a _shamefully_ seditious reputation, which will not serve you well if you are to champion Cyrodiil."

"I could give a minotaur's ass about my reputation," she replied curtly.

"And _that_, Miss Dissentia, is precisely the reason I ordered you here," he countered, knotting his hands together tightly. Ocato's gaze stiffened, "_You, _my famed _hero_, cannot traipse around this country acting in the manner that you have. You are rude, violent, brash, and every meaningful sentence that escapes your slanderous mouth is a snide comment on the ineffectuality of authority."

"Eloquently put," Druzelle conceded distantly. No sign of concern tainted her voice.

"You _clearly_ cannot acknowledge the severity of your stupidity," Ocato seethed in response, "If you continue to act as you do- insulting counts in their castles and councilors in their courts, instigating rebellion wherever you go- the nobility will never support you."

Druzelle kicked up her feet and rested them on the edge of Ocato's desk, her hands tucked primly behind her head. She flexed her toes in their boots, evoking an expression of total disgust from the Altmer, who pushed his chair as far away from the woman as he could. The Imperial's mint eyes glistened with a delighted, debased sparkle.

"You know, I don't care what the nobles think, and I don't need to. I've saved people's lives closing those gates, while _your _soldiers sat idly and watched me do it," Druzelle muttered coolly, "Don't play me the fool. We both know that the Imperial Legion is too busy cleaning up after the emperor's death and maintaining order. I'm the _only one_ you've got to close these gates. I don't have to listen to your bullsh-"

"Again, _Miss Dissentia_, you're wrong," Ocato rejoined angrily, "You can close as many Oblivion gates as you please, but the daedra will come back with a vengeance. We are on the brink of war, Miss Dissentia, and you cannot face the enemy alone. When you are overwhelmed, who will come to your aid? No one. The nobility loathe you. And that, my _lady_, is why you need to clean up your act."

"I'm not about to keep listening to this idiocy," Druzelle retorted. The Chancellor chuckled quietly, settling calmly into his chair. Druzelle eyed him suspiciously, as he assumed an air of sudden triumph.

"You won't _have_ to," he announced, "Because I have invited someone to counsel you."

"_What?!_" Druzelle shouted, tearing her feet off Ocato's desk and slamming them on the floor, to the resounding thud of stiff leather and cold iron on the stone beneath.

"You heard me," he said, "If you are to be a _proper_ hero, you need another hero to tell you how to navigate the politics of saving the world, as it were, and direct you away from the error of your ways. Therefore, I have asked the Nerevarine to convene with you in Bruma, for as long as it takes to rid you of your wretchedness."

"You can tell the Nerevarine that they'd be more welcome advocating Argonian slavery in the middle of Black Marsh than they'll be when they arrive at Cloud Ruler Temple," Druzelle snapped.

"Don't be ungrateful," Ocato admonished, "The Nerevarine has called off a much-anticipated expedition to Akavir to journey to Cyrodiil- to your benefit, I may add."

"Well, _sure_, you probably ordered the Nerevarine to come here just as you did me," Druzelle observed sharply.

"That's beside the point," Ocato replied, "And I tire of your complaints. Save your misery for the Nerevarine. Dunmer relish anguish like yours."

"I'm _not-_"

"For Akatosh's sake, go back to Bruma, Miss Dissentia. I won't hear any more of it. Jauffre will need you to prepare for the Nerevarine's arrival, and I should suspect that the countess would like to debrief you more on the significance of this visit. Lady Carvain is perhaps the last noble in Tamriel who has the patience to withstand your waywardness. You are dismissed, Miss Dissentia."

Druzelle snarled and rose to her feet, sulking across the office and making a point to slam the door behind her with a satisfyingly thunderous clatter.

--

It is commonly known that the Dunmer are the most miserable race in Tamriel. There is no subject that escapes their gripes, no grievance that eludes their complaints, and certainly no rumor that evades their attentions. Particularly the ghastly ones.

It was no surprise, then, that Lady Idayn Eralas despised Cyrodiil. Like all Dunmer, she believed that the world beyond Morrowind was a gurgling cesspit of promiscuity and barbarism. The moment that her carriage stopped at the Cyrodiil border, she poked her dainty face out from behind the curtain of her window and sneered. Before her Dunmeri attendant could unlock the carriage door, Idayn flung it open, her silken skirts gathered in one hand. Her polished black tresses frayed from their braided knot, casting narrow shadows across her violently orange eyes. She hopped to the ground, sniffed the air, and sulked.

"All the eye can see is _grass_," she huffed, "Is that all Cyrodiil is good for? Endless fields of grass and a dead emperor?"

"My lady, forgive me, I do not intend to be rude," her attendant offered meekly, "But we have only crossed the border."

"Then I shall expect to see more of it, if the colorless scenery of this wretched country could hope to worsen my melancholy. The grass, I mean, not the dead emperor. _His_ loss was hardly tragic," Idayn cynically replied. The attendant poked his head from the inside of the carriage, his lips drawn in a twitching, nervous line.

"What- what I mean to say, my lady, is that Morrowind is just behind us."

"That is usually the case whenever one crosses a border, good sir," she announced. She wrinkled her nose and paced around her entourage. As she stretched her legs, the attendant leapt from the cabin to follow her. He hurriedly snatched the bottom hem of her chocolate-colored dress to lift it off the weeds as she tramped through them and reeled around the head of the caravan.

"My lady, I mean to say, there is just as much grass behind us and you were not at all displeased," the attendant supplied, "If not for the landscape, I beseech you, you must find _some _pleasure in your holiday here."

"Dear Dram, if I were on _holiday_, I would not be in _Cyrodiil_," she jeered as her attendant scurried behind her, an armful of her billowing skirts gathered to his chest. Whenever she spun around towards him, he nearly stumbled into her bodice. Idayn flattened her gown irritably with her hands, and scoffed, "Recall that the last time I _holidayed _in Cyrodiil, I was held captive as a political prisoner by Uriel Septim and later shipped back to Morrowind as a common criminal in pauper's rags. I was a prisoner, Dram, ordered to do Caius Cosades' bidding, against my better judgment, and against the advice of the Morag- oh, forgive me, Dram. I digress. I do my best to keep my dissatisfaction to myself, but this land reminds me of terrible things, and the station of the Nerevarine has brought little solace to my existence."

As Idayn boarded the carriage, her lips softened into a hopeless frown. She would have been beautiful, Dram brooded, if her face weren't a continuous expression of despair. To his own dismay, Dram knew that Idayn's misery was warranted, and it would likely be years before she was ever happy again. He followed her into the cabin, taking the seat across from her, and considered, "You have not seen the city of Bruma, my lady. Perhaps you shall take a liking to it."

"You expect much," she uttered, planting her feet solidly on the floor as the caravan began to move again. The carriage jerked forward, the horses neighing as the entourage rolled northwards across Cyrodiil.

"Chancellor Ocato seemed to think you would," he smiled encouragingly, "His letters indicate that Bruma is a small, quiet, snowy city, which should suite your taste for discretion in Cyrodiil exceptionally well, my lady."

"How lovely," Idayn sulked, "A city with even _less_ culture than the Imperial City, if that is even possible. Dagoth Ur should have slaughtered me and fed my body to the lava pits of Red Mountain, if only so that I would never have to suffer the sight of Cyrodiil, and its cities, and its…_endless fields of grass punctuated by not a single intelligent creature _ever again_. _Azura, give me strength. I have a feeling that this shall be a very long… _holiday_, indeed."

On that note- Dram stifled a groan- he could not agree more.

--

The Cheydinhal sanctuary brimmed with life, which was ironic, given that it housed a guild of murderers. Its members buzzed about the maze of chambers with extraordinary excitement- and trepidation- in preparation for Lucien Lachance's visit. The Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, one of its ruling members and amongst the most menacing leaders in the organization, did not frequent the sanctuary often, but when he did, it was always quite the event. It was also the only occasion in which Gogron and Telaendril weren't clawing at one another.

"I shall treasure this moment," Ocheeva mumbled as she passed the wood elf and the orc in the line-up, "Everyone in my sanctuary, standing in one room, with all their internal organs _remaining_ internal. Magnificent. Lucien will be overwhelmed with joy whenever he arrives."

"That would be extraordinary," Telaendril sourly replied, "Given that 'joy' and 'Lucien' generally don't show up in the same sentence together."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Antoinetta pouted, "_I've _seen Lucien Lachance happier than could be. In fact, Lucien was _very_ joyed whenever he recruited _me _to the Dark Brotherhood. Did I ever mention that he rescued me, starved and dying, from a gutter?"

"Yes, you have, Antoinetta, many times before. And it's _joyous_, or _joyful_, not joyed," Ocheeva sighed.

"Speaking of extraordinary, it's amazing what grammar one can inherit from life in a gutter," Vicente noted as he crossed the room and joined his fellow assassins in the middle of the sanctuary's lobby. The vampire's angular, pale cheeks and scarlet eyes were framed by awry, pecan-brown tresses that had obviously been loosed from the ponytail behind his neck from sleep. Antoinetta scoffed as he glided across the room and stood next to Teinaava, as she uttered how highly Lucien thought of her-loudly enough for Telaendril next to her to hear. The wood elf grinded her teeth.

"What was _that_, Antoinetta?" she asked deafeningly, "I can't believe my poor Bosmer ears. Ocheeva, are you hearing this? Did Antoinetta just say that Lucien wanted to make love to her… in a _gutter_?"

"No!" the blonde assassin blushed, snapping, "I wasn't saying anything of the sort."

"Oh, no, that's what I heard," Telaendril shouted, "You're always fantasizing about that damned gutter and how much you _love_ Lucien and how highly he thinks of your talent."

"He _admires _me!" Antoinetta insisted. Ocheeva buried her forehead in her palms.

"For Sithis's sake, can't you _both_ keep silent?"

"Oh, sure, _I _can," Telaendril retorted, "But Antoinetta has a hard time keeping her _trap_ shut about how she wants to fuck Lucien Lacha-"

"_Telaendril!_"

"Did someone offer to bed me?"

"Lucien Lachance!" Ocheeva stammered, leaping in front of Antoinetta, "We are honored by your presence."

"Yes, I can _see_ that _some_ of us are overjoyed," he said, eyeing Antoinetta fiercely. When she winked back, he recoiled, folding his arms over his chest defensively. Sensing his discomfort, Ocheeva shot Antoinetta with a fuming, embarrassed glare.

"Had you arrived not a few moments' earlier," Ocheeva offered, "Our _associates_ would have acted more befitting of your presence. I shall punish them appropriately for it later, unless you would like to address the matter yourself."

Under his black robe, Lucien's shoulders tightened, "She did not defy one of the Tenets."

"Nope, she didn't, Ocheeva!" Gogron boomed, and swung an arm around Antoinetta. Her head thumped against the armor of his chest as the orc petted her head with a gloved hand, exclaiming, "Sex isn't written in any of the Tenets!"

"Thank you for enlightening us," Teinaava growled.

"What did I say about hugging, Gogron?" Ocheeva admonished. The orc released the human, upon which the woman gasped frantically for breath.

"Uh, sorry Ocheeva. And Antoinetta," He apologized meekly. Which, for an orc, was piercingly loud. The echo of his voice lasted for a while, ringing through the sanctuary. When the noise faded, Lucien coughed, snatching the short attention spans of the assassins while he could.

"May I proceed?" Lucien muttered. He didn't wait for a response to remove his hood, so that the auburn light lighting the foyer illuminated the warm brown of his eyes and the rugged curve of his jaw. He paced in front of the assassins, sending quivers through all of them. And presumably, an orgasm through Antoinetta.

"I came here in hopes that I would intercept your precious Sister, Druzelle Dissentia," he announced, "She was not completing a contract or frequenting the sanctuary in weeks. I feared she was an agent of the Empire, come to unravel our organization from within, who left for safety in the Imperial City whenever she advanced too far in our ranks. This was not the case, as my private agents reported. She happens, however, to be the Hero of Kvatch."

"Uh, Lucien, don't mean to be insulting," Gogron interjected, "But everyone knows that."

"When you're living under a rock, that's not precisely common knowledge," Vicente uttered under his breath. Ocheeva stomped on his foot whenever Lucien turned away from them, and the vampire reeled silently with pain. When Lucien glanced over his shoulder at him, Vicente smiled obliquely and hobbled on his feet.

"_As I was saying_," Lucien continued, "Miss Dissentia is quickly on the road to becoming Cyrodiil's champion against the rising Daedric forces. Unfortunately for the security and well-being of Tamriel, she also happens to be the most ineffectual diplomat to have ever lived, and the nobility will not accept her as their champion."

"So they've called someone in to counsel her," Ocheeva answered. Lucien frowned, irritated.

"You were _aware_ of the presence of the Nerevarine in Cyrodiil?" He griped.

"It is not common knowledge, no, but it is widely known amongst those who observe the actions of the Empire closely enough," Ocheeva shrugged, "I did not see this as problematic to Druzelle, or to any of us."

"Of course not," Lucien seethed, "Because you were _clearly_ unaware that the Nerevarine is a master of the Morag Tong, and she will be counseling _a sister of the Dark Brotherhood_. The Nerevarine will be uncomfortably close to our organization, and _that_, you _imbeciles_, is why I traveled here to locate her and advise her _against agreeing to the stupidity of the Empire's decision to ever bring a Morag Tong agent to Cyrodiil!_"

Lucien caught his breath, inhaled, and collected himself, "If, through Miss Dissentia, this Tong agent draws anywhere _near_ this sanctuary, I will be powerless to end her miserable existence and maintain the secrecy of this safe haven. I cannot kill the Nerevarine and risk the wrath of the Morag Tong _and_ the Empire _and_ the people of Morrowind assaulting the Brotherhood at once, should they discover our involvement in an instance of self-defense, essentially. This puts us- _particularly_ Miss Dissentia- in a treacherous predicament, one that I endeavor to prevent."

"Shall we watch her, then?" Ocheeva asked.

"Or bait her in? Set a trap for her here?" Vicente offered. Lucien shook his head gravely.

"No. I shall pursue Miss Dissentia alone, and ensure that she does not begin a political crisis between herself and the Morag Tong. Your duty here, then, is to station our agents on the surface, to keep a watchful eye ever on the city of Cheydinhal. If you see any sign of Druzelle, do not permit her entry until you are completely certain that she is not followed by _anyone_. And if you see the Nerevarine-"

"_Slaughter her!_" Gogron exclaimed.

"You're definitely _not _getting stationed in Cheydinhal," Teinaava frowned, "Ocheeva and I will decide who is given positions on the surface."

"I place my faith in your judgment. Do not disappoint me," Lucien warned bitterly. The Argonians nodded solemnly, and herded the rest of the Dark Brotherhood members out of the foyer. As the members dispersed, and the chatter of Telaendril and Antoinetta's brewing cat fight weakened, Vicente emerged from the shadows and grasped Lucien by the shoulder.

"This situation is more dangerous than you admit to the sanctuary," he murmured, "Despite the secrecy surrounding the events, you are aware of the uniqueness of your… _dilemma_. Perhaps the others have not been in Sithis's service long enough to remember, but I have not forgotten it, and neither have the Dunmer people."

Lucien pulled his limb loose from the vampire's grasp, growling, "If the Nerevarine wanted vengeance, she would have found me already, and she would be dead by my hand as we speak. Is that the case, though, dear Vicente? No. It is not. She does not seek revenge, she does not even know who I _am_, and I doubt her sentiments have worsened in the interim."

"You mutilated her husband and left him to die," Vicente uttered softly, "If not consumed by her wrath, she must be by her sorrow, which must be immeasurable. It is said that she planned to journey to Akavir to escape her grief in Tamriel."

"I don't regret killing Liram Eralas, and I do not understand how these petty things are significant," he snarled, the gravelly rumble of his voice grating against the cold, dry air of the sanctuary. He snatched his hood and tugged it over his head, acting as if he would depart, but Vicente held his attention.

"It is significant, Lucien, because should you rendezvous- intentionally or not- with the Nerevarine, you could singlehandedly spark a guild war between the Dark Brotherhood and the Morag Tong. Had you poisoned Lord Eralas, or slit his throat, perhaps this would not be a valid concern," Vicente explicated. Lucien glanced warily over his shoulder at the vampire.

"I can see where this discussion is headed, and I disagree entirely," Lucien responded stubbornly.

"Then pardon my speech, but you're an imbecile," Vicente replied, "Do you genuinely think that after eviscerating Lord Eralas and leaving him to bleed out on the floor of his chambers, that his wife would be satisfied with merely killing _you_? She will use you, and Druzelle, to destroy all of us. By chasing Druzelle, you're opening a dangerous door that the Nerevarine could exploit."

"What am I to do, then?" Lucien hissed, "_Not_ pursue Druzelle, purely to avoid potential contact with the Morag Tong?"

"Not at all," Vicente answered, "But don't allow that opportunity to occur. Don't avoid the Nerevarine, because that will only brew suspicion. Watch Druzelle, guide her, but openly- and treat Lady Eralas with the same openness. Speak to her, cast doubt on the Brotherhood's involvement, fabricate rumors, lie and hint that the Morag Tong itself is to blame for the murder of her husband."

Lucien rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his thumb, conceding, "I suppose there is merit to your insight. The Night Mother teaches us that discretion extends beyond the physical ability to avoid detection. I cannot promise that I will heed your advice, Vicente, but I will consider the possibilities of your plans, and act as I see fit."

"For that, I am grateful," Vicente promised, "I shall keep you no longer, though I urge you to return as soon as you can. I have many complaints to register about Antoinetta that I believe warrant your attention."

--

On paper, Druzelle Dissentia looked like the self-styled name of a dreadfully uncreative necromancer. The noise of it was even worse, and to its owner, it sounded like the moan of a spriggan giving birth to quadruplet goblins every time someone suffered the misfortune of having to speak it.

But when Martin Septim called her name, it was like poetry.

"I'm coming!" Druzelle bellowed to him from across the temple. She hurdled across the living chambers, snatching her suede boots and cloak on the way, dressing in them as she snaked through the building and into the main reception room. Martin leaned over a mess of cluttered papers and opened books. His brisk blue eyes, mature beyond his years, stared hard at the scribbled symbols and graphs on the pages spread beneath him. Druzelle had to clear her throat to break his concentration. When he saw her, he immediately grinned, and beckoned for her to join him.

"Ocato may have put you in a bad mood," he noted, "But I think that this will lift your spirits."

From beneath the mound of papers, Martin unearthed a map of Cyrodiil. His finger fell on the page north of Anvil. Druzelle eyed him mysteriously, and then gazed at the seemingly empty spot on the map.

"I don't mean to disappoint, but there's nothing there," Druzelle responded, pausing before she smiled, "Ah, let me guess. It's a dungeon. A cave? Another Oblivion gate?"

"It's a Daedric shrine," he chuckled, and clarified, "The Shrine of Malacath. It's rumored to be the location of a mighty hammer, a daedric artifact called Volendrung. Consider it an option for the artifact I required to begin the ritual. I don't think you'd mind sacrificing a blunt weapon that is of little use to you in order to open the gateway to Paradise."

"You know me too well," Druzelle smirked, kissing his cheek, "Well, I'm off to fetch that hammer. Expect me home in a few days. Farewell, my love!"

Druzelle marched off down the foyer of the temple, snatching her sword off the table top and heading for the door. Before she could leave, Martin faintly sighed, "Druzelle, I'm perfectly aware that you're trying to escape the Nerevarine's arrival."

She froze, her hands clenched. She turned around, giggling nervously as she crept back to the table and sat across from where Martin stood.

"Oh, yes. I, well, you know. Forgot. Silly me."

"You don't need to lie to me," he reminded her warmly, and sank down on the bench. He extended his hand, and wrapped it tenderly around hers. He felt the cool, silver surface of the ring on her finger graze his warm palm. Druzelle's pale cheeks flushed.

"I need to work on that, don't I? Stop lying, I mean?" she murmured sweetly.

"Not at all," he whispered, "I always know when you're concealing something. You're an absolutely _terrible_ liar."

The shrill, nasal noise of Jauffre's voice boomed through the foyer.

"Druzelle! Your Highness!" he hollered, "The Nerevarine has arrived in Bruma! Druzelle, saddle your horse! We ride to the city to greet our esteemed guest!"

"Oh, by the _gods_," Druzelle moaned, "Countess Carvain warned me to play nice. Don't think I'm ready to quite yet. Still bitter over Ocato, you know."

"Now, now, no excuses," Martin chided teasingly, "Treat her with respect. You may find that she is not unlike yourself, this Dunmeri hero."

"Heroine, you mean," Druzelle amended with a grin, "The Nerevarine is a woman."

--

"This is _unreal_," Druzelle snapped, "Why does it have to be so damned cold?"

"Darned," Countess Carvain corrected. Druzelle snorted.

"Look, is this ashborn going to ever get here? Jauffre reported that she was just outside the gates."

"Racial slur," the Countess succinctly noted.

"What?!"

"_Ashborn_ is a racial slur, Miss Dissentia," The Countess said.

"How long have we been outside?!" Druzelle demanded.

"Not long enough to turn your rambling lips to ice, I'm afraid," Jauffre sighed.

"She's coming up the road," the Countess nodded towards the snow-blanketed path. From the jumbled woodwork of the city, Druzelle craned her neck to see a Dunmeri caravan rise over the stairs, walking up toward the castle. Every one of the men in the entourage wore elaborate, brassy armor engraved with Indoril sigils, and scarves dyed royal blue wound around their necks and draped over their windswept, chilly foreheads. As the guards dispersed, a breathless servant emerged from the back of the crowd, juggling two embossed leather traveling bags in his velvet-draped arms. He heaved a heavy breath, dropped the bags to the ground, and introduced the Nerevarine.

"May I present to you-" he grappled for air, "Her Ladyship Idayn Eralas, Nerevarine, of the Great house of Indoril, archer, assassin of the Morag Tong, and former charge of Caius Cosades, loyal servant to the empire."

Idayn floated out from the guise of the evening shadows cast by the city's walls. She lifted the hem of her brown silk gown and curtsied. When she stood, Druzelle noticed how sickeningly beautiful that the Dunmer's exotic elven face was, and how exquisite that the gilded longbow strapped to the woman was, and how supple the chocolate leather of her boots was. Idayn did not dress extravagantly, but as the daughter of a prosperous merchant, Druzelle knew wealth when she saw it. Idayn's elegant gait was telling not only of her blue-blooded upbringing but of her immense skill as a marksman and accomplished assassin, Druzelle recognized. Her cheeks warmed with jealousy.

"It is a pleasure to have been invited to your magnificent city," Idayn announced. She made no attempt at sincerity, "My private guard will retire to the Imperial City until I prepared to return to Morrowind, but my servant Dram will remain in my company."

"It is the pleasure of the Countess to have you," Captain Byrd offered as he stood beside his liege, "May I present my lady, Narina Carvain, Countess of Bruma."

"I am truly flattered to have you in my city, Lady Eralas," the Countess assured the Dunmer, shaking her hand fervently. The wedding band on the dark elf's finger glittered with a colored diamond larger than a fingernail, with more facets than there were monsters in Tamriel. Druzelle masked her simple silver engagement ring with her opposite hand. Idayn surveyed the gathered throng, frowning as she saw Druzelle. Her orange eyes burned through the human.

"May I have the honor of your name?" Idayn requested icily. Druzelle scoffed.

"I thought you came here because there _is_ no honor to my name," she rejoined. The Dunmer frowned, more distinctly and intensely than she typically did.

"Please, excuse her," Countess Carvain said, but Idayn shook her head. Her piercing gaze remained on Druzelle.

"You needn't excuse her, my lady," Idayn coldly murmured, "She shall find in the coming days that her wit will serve her well, if she uses it properly."

"Her name is Druzelle Dissentia," Jauffre adjoined, motioning towards the Nerevarine as he glared fiercely at Druzelle, "And _this_ is Lady Idayn Eralas, the Nerevarine, hero of Vvardenfell, and noble of House Indoril."

"Jeez, Jauffre, I heard her before," Druzelle spat, "Look, Dunmer, let's make this perfectly clear: I don't like you, I'm not _going_ to like you, and you can't change me. I am who I am. It's gotten me pretty damned far, and so I don't think I need your help. Diplomacy is for politicians, not heroes. Now excuse me. I have better things to be doing than freezing my ass out here in this blizzard. Good day."

Druzelle stomped off through the snow towards the castle. Jauffre began to march on after her, but Idayn urged him against it.

"I shall speak to her, if you would permit me," she said.

"Pardon me, lady, but better you than me," he huffed irritably.

Idayn sashayed across the path, leaving Dram behind her. He grappled with the bags on the ground, and followed the Countess towards the castle as his lady headed off up the hill and towards Cloud Ruler temple in pursuit of the Imperial.

"This is going to be a very long holiday, indeed," Dram lamented.

"What was that, Dunmer?" the Countess asked.

"I said that the road was long," he lied, "And if your ladyship would be so kind, a swig of mead would do my spirits wonders."

At least the latter part was true.

--

Druzelle heaved as she trudged up the mountain, her breath a grey fog upon the overcast, nighttime sky. Clouds obscured the light of the moon, and so Druzelle procured a torch from her belt, igniting it with flint from her pocket. Its welcome warmth thawed her frosty cheeks, and shed auburn light on the path ahead. Behind her, she heard the soft footfalls of leather boots in the snow. The ashborn was following her.

She hated Idayn Eralas already.

Druzelle could gain no ground on the Dunmer. At last, just before the summit where the temple rested was in sight, she spun around and screamed agitatedly into the air. She barked, "Why can't you leave me be? Why can't you let me do what I'm doing, destroy these blasted gates, and call it a day? Hmm? Tell me. Tell me!"

Idayn casually strolled up the hill to where Druzelle was. She paused, and again, shook her head, "It is time, human, to stop acting so tremendously ungrateful of my counsel and the immense sacrifices that I made to return to Cyrodiil on your behalf."

"_What_ sacrifices?!" Druzelle shouted, "A vacation in Akavir?!"

"I shall make it painfully obvious, Miss Dissentia, that I find you to be beneath me," Idayn responded, "My intellect, my noble birth, my accomplishments as a hero, my wealth, all dwarf any that you will ever know. You are poor, as I am told, and I am already aware of your tactlessness. No, my sacrifice was not a trivial journey to Akavir, but the embarrassment of having to tame such a lowly woman as you."

"_Tame?! Tame!_" Druzelle raged, "_I do not need to be tamed! I don't need you, or your advice, or any of your bullshit!_"

"_Furthermore_," Idayn persisted, "You diminish your worth to the Empire each time you open your mouth, and I am very tempted to permit you your unacceptable audacity if only to see you killed by Ocato's men and replaced with a more respectable hero."

"Ocato _can't_ kill me," Druzelle spat, "I'm all he's got between the Oblivion gates and the security of every town in Cyrodiil. He knows that; _he's told me that_."

"Truly? And do slaughterfish fly, Miss Dissentia? Do dremora engage in charity work?" Idayn flatly answered, callously continuing, "Your arrogance is poorly placed, and wholly unmerited. You think yourself superior? There is but _one_ Nerevarine, ordained by Azura. But there are many Druzelles in this world, and Ocato's patience with this one is wearing lethally thin."

"_And you call me arrogant_!" Druzelle yelled, "_One _Nerevarine?! How many false Nerevarines came before you, huh? Who's to say that they didn't just fuck everything up, die, and rot while someone new who could actually _survive Red Mountain _would come rolling along? You want to play mind games, hmm? Well here's one for you: you were _just_ as disposable as me, _ashborn_."

"I find your comments imprudent, and your insults childish," Idayn remarked.

"Oh?" Druzelle hissed, "Well _you_ were the one treating me with the utmost kindness and respect and big, dazzling smiles and all whenever you got out of that damned carriage, and now _look_ at you- treating me no better than a butcher treats his pigs."

"_Welcome to politics_," Idayn tersely replied, lifting her luxuriant skirts, as she began down the hill again, "Now excuse me, but I have a banquet to attend and fine linen bed covers to anticipate tonight, Miss Dissentia."

"_It's Druzelle!_" the Imperial shrieked down the mountain side.

--

**Author's Notes**

I am indebted to the reviewer An Underpaid Critic (aptly enough) for their suggestions for the improvement of this chapter. I added a new introduction, altered minor dialogue in some scenes, and edited the story summary.

As always, thank you for your readership and comments. It is always a pleasure to hear from my audience.

Happy reading,

Valah


	2. Chapter 2

**CONTUMELY**

**Chapter Two**

The season had not treated Bruma favorably. Martin awoke from bed to an icy draft of air blasting through loose ceiling tiles, and to Druzelle's shivering toes clamoring against his bare leg. He rubbed his dreary eyes, yawning, glancing over to see his fiancé's flaming hair cast like a blaze across the white linen of the pillows. Loosening his body from her tangled arms, he crept from bed and stretched his arms, donning a warm, wool robe from the drawer. Druzelle tossed in the blankets and emerged from her slumber, her eyes lifeless.

"Goddamnit, Martin, why are you up so early?" She griped.

"Because it is morning," He innocently responded.

Druzelle tumbled out of the covers and rubbed her naked arms, "Bad idea. It's freezing."

Martin dug in the drawers and tossed her a spare cloak. She snuggled into it like a caterpillar huddling into its cocoon, and drifted across the room towards him. Her head thudded off his chest.

"Fuck," she stated succinctly.

"Don't even get me started, Dee," Martin warned.

"I didn't even _say_ anything."

"You're playing me the fool."

"I always do."

"And it never works."

"Right."

"Precisely."

"Fuck the ashborn."

"_Druzelle_."

"_Martin_."

"Are you going to speak to our children like this?"

"We're having children?"

"That's not the point!" Martin huffed, "Lady Eralas is bound to crucify you for your petulance. Please, Druzelle, save yourself the pain and _behave_ today. For me, love?"

His blue eyes pleaded, and Druzelle yielded to them. She swung her arms around him, exclaiming, "_I surrender!_ I'll try to behave, alright? I'll keep all my complaints to myself. And you, of course. What would life be like between us if I wasn't antagonizing you?"

"It would be infinitely peaceful," Martin sighed.

"_Martin Septim!_"

He ruffled her hair with his fist, laughing as she emitted a stream of giggles. Coiling his hands around her torso, he planted a kiss on her nose, then on her lips, and mumbled, "Rhetoric is a street of two lanes, my love. If you dish out comments, expect to have them returned in kind."

--

Idayn Eralas ate breakfast early. It was a habit that she had formed as an adventurer, when she capitalized on as many hours of daylight as she could to make navigating the treacherous landscape of Vvardenfell easier. It was also a habit Dram despised. Inevitably, he would be awaiting his ladyship with drowsy eyes and an expressionless stupor painted on his face when she arrived in the dining chambers for her meal.

That morning was no exception, and Dram received no solace in the fact that today was the first day in which her Ladyship would be tutoring the Imperial. It was going to be along day ahead of him, and by the end of it, he would be hearing it from Idayn. As much as he begrudgingly adored her, he was in no proper state to listen.

But his day was punctuated by an even more unpleasant surprise.

"Good morning Dram," Idayn greeted as she entered, taking her seat across from where he stood. As she always did, she motioned to the chair next to him, and he sank into it. He stared at the sweet meats on his plate emptily, as Idayn began to eat. Between bites, she noted, "There will be no itinerary for today. I have a special task for you."

"My lady?" he asked wearily.

"You will be traveling to the city of Cheydinhal on my behalf. I have received an invitation from Count Andel Indarys to his court. Count Indarys was a powerful figure in Hlaalu politics, and he retains many connections still in Morrowind who will be attending court in expectation to meet me," Idayn explained. Her voice lost its severity. Court life brightened her mood.

"It is always wise for House Indoril to remain in good graces with the Hlaalu pigs," Dram snorted. Idayn smiled calculatingly.

"Indeed," she agreed, "Which is why I am not about to send my regrets to his invitation via letter. I want you to travel there and personally inform the Count of my obligations in Bruma, and inform him that I would be most pleased to attend his court at a later date."

"Most certainly, my lady," Dram said. Idayn took a few bites of her toast and sipped on her tea.

"Oh, and Dram?"

"Yes, ladyship?"

"Make sure to pack lighter clothing. Cheydinhal is far from here, and it does not share the unforgiving climate of Bruma," She suggested. Dram's face grew pale.

"Far from here?"

"I failed to mention that? Forgive me," Idayn casually nibbled on her toast, swallowed, and noted, "Cheydinhal is located just outside the border of Morrowind."

"Wh-What? But, my lady, that is many days' time away, from whence we just came-"

"For your service, I am willing to reward you bonus pay," Idayn replied. Dram sighed.

"You are most generous, my lady," he muttered.

"Very well then," she said, and daintily wiped her lips with her napkin, "Have a safe journey, then. I shall eagerly await your return."

Idayn stood from her seat and departed the room, leaving Dram wide-eyed and gape-jawed in his seat, his breakfast untouched. He didn't know whether he should be aghast at the distance of the journey ahead, or the realization that the Nerevarine had just ordered him to go on an adventure.

--

Idayn arrived without the pomp and circumstance that Druzelle anticipated. To the Imperial's great frustration, the Dunmer was received like royalty. It was different whenever Martin walked the halls of Cloud Ruler Temple, because he genuinely believed himself a commoner like any of the Blades in the temple. Idayn, on the other hand, embraced that she was blue-blooded. Wherever Idayn went, she set precedents for behavior. People stood a little straighter, walked a little swifter, and talked a little quieter when she entered a room. She expected it. She commanded a dignified presence from everyone around her.

Well, except Druzelle.

Druzelle was silent, alright, but there was little that was dignified about her. Not even the pale blue lace of her girlish gown could possibly paint her a noble woman, and her grin was typically contemptuous.

"Miss Dissentia," Idayn greeted curtly, "I pray you enjoyed a good night's rest."

"The bags under my eyes don't tell you otherwise?" Druzelle retorted, in a voice so sweet it was nauseating.

Idayn slyly smiled, "They suit your person _so_ well."

"As your arrogance does you," Druzelle replied, and immediately felt pierced by Martin's glare from across the room. She giggled naively, and curtsied as if to amend her wit, "We are _so _pleased to have you here at Cloud Ruler Temple, Lady Eralas. May we begin our lessons?"

"We may begin our lessons with the reception of your guests," Idayn responded.

"Guest, singular," Druzelle remarked, "You've lost your little goblin of a servant."

"_Dram_," Idayn huffed, "And he is attending to a matter in Cheydinhal on my behalf."

"Didn't you say he would remain in your company? Or did you just scare him away with your _tremendous personality_?" Druzelle scathed. Idayn unfastened her luxuriant cloak and swung it over the back of a chair, revealing a band of black pearls that nearly faded into the polished black of her hair.

"As I noted previously," Idayn said, "We will begin with the reception of guests at court."

"Well, I aced that part."

"Did you?" Idayn rejoined harshly, "Did you introduce me to your fellow Blades? Did you stand up straight, shake my hand, inquire as to how well I slept or from what province did I purchase the silks of my gown?"

Druzelle growled.

"Allow me to answer the question on your behald, Miss Dissentia. _No_," The Dunmer rebuked. She paced to the front of the foyer, and began walking towards Druzelle, bowing halfway through. When she rose, her customary expression of sorrow abruptly disappeared, and in its place was a smile. She explained, "Whenever a guest enters a room, it is _your_ duty to approach them, to curtsy, or to shake their hand. _Smile_, and not like you have a subversive agenda on your mind."

She continued to move towards Druzelle, and extended her green-grey hand to the Imperial. Druzelle warily shook it. She could feel that Idayn's palm was calloused from years of battling and adventuring.

"Do I make myself perfectly clear with my example?" Idayn asked, not hesitating for a response, "I should _think_ your command of language is enough to suffice whenever you make common conversation in greeting your guests."

"I don't see the point in all of this," Druzelle bemoaned. Idayn's false smile deteriorated into her lips' usual frown.

"That is because you _expect_ your deeds to precede you, and that is a most reckless notion," Idayn cautioned, "I should _think_ that your tomfoolery is more renowned than your heroism, Miss Dissentia, if counts and countesses are even unwilling to communicate with you."

"Fuck them. If they don't want to talk, then their Oblivion gates will stick around."

"So for your unwillingness to act with propriety, you would put innocent lives at risk?"

Druzelle fell silent, her mouth cemented shut.

"You hesitate to conform, because you come from a family of wealth," Idayn analyzed, "You do not want to play their games of diplomacy, or act with etiquette, because you are bitter for the life you lost. Do not insult my intelligence by refuting me."

Druzelle murmured, "You don't know how lost I was when my father betrayed me,"

"I did _not_ say that your rationale excused you from your stupidity," Idayn reproached.

The Imperial uttered, "The rich were the ones that imprisoned me-"

"_It was your ungratefulness that had you imprisoned_," Idayn hissed. The room fell hushed, the crunch of the Blades' armor in the backdrop silenced. The Dunmer scolded her, "The Empire imprisoned me for crimes I did not commit. I was stripped of my dignity, shipped back to my homeland as a pauper, and ousted from my noble family. _I was alone, forsaken, for circumstances beyond the narrow scope of your self-serving mind_. Yet did I _ever _abandon my propriety? No. Do _not _give me excuses, Miss Dissentia, for yours are unfounded and poorly argued."

"I find it _ironic_ that these words come from the woman who speaks of etiquette," Druzelle fumed.

"I may speak my mind because I am in a position to do so," Idayn answered piercingly, "And I am free to remark that even with all the resources in the world given to you, I doubt you will _ever_ be able to master the art of diplomacy."

"Is that a challenge, ashborn?"

"It is a _statement_."

"Oh, is that so? Well _watch me_," Druzelle shouted, "You think so _highly_ of yourself and your misery. Fuck you. You think that because you're good at _pretending_ to be well-mannered you can get away with treating _me_ like a bug under your boot, thinking that your suffering is just _so_ much more tragic than anyone else's hardships. You don't think that I can _act_ as well as you, _bow and curtsy and smile_ like you do? That's right, watch me. Because when I'm twice as tactful as you'll ever hope to be, I'm going to trample all over you and your pathetic life story, ashborn."

"_Druzelle!_" Martin reprimanded, but Idayn raised a hand to quiet him.

"I accept your challenge," Idayn replied, "But we shall need a judge to testify the outcome."

Idayn strolled around the circumference of the room, surveying each of the Blades, asking, "Which one of you shall stand witness against your Hero of Kvatch, and determine who is the more diplomatic, the more decorous of the two? No one? Have we no volunteers?"

"If I weren't so biased, Dee, I would," Martin offered. Druzelle groaned.

"Thanks for helping my case, love," She replied.

"Now, now, Druzelle, play fair or not at all."

"Are you going to talk to our children like that?" Druzelle retorted. Martin laughed.

"Who said we were going to have children?"

"_Enough_," Idayn ordered, and Druzelle found herself- unconsciously, of course- heeding the Dunmer's command. Idayn's demands never sounded petulant, only cold, empty. The Nerevarine crossed her willowy arms over her red satin bodice, twirling her neck to lift a loose tress from her eyes. She snorted, "I should think that Chancellor Ocato would be the judge, as he has established some invisible standard of eloquence and tact to which he expects you to conform. But I think him, as an agent to this empire, a poor judge of character."

"I resent that," Jauffre snarled.

"Quips against your empire, you mean?" Idayn replied, "Or the fact that your nation is ruled by fools?"

"_I _resent _that_," Martin rejoined.

"I don't think Druzelle does, _your majesty_," Idayn retorted, "She keeps little faith in authority."

Druzelle flexed her fist, "How the _hell_ did you even know Martin was emperor? Did you spy? Pry into Blades' correspondences?"

Idayn frowned, "Pry? Caius Cosades, my associate, is a master in the Blades. Did you truly believe that he would leave me uninformed to the state of the empire whenever I departed Morrowind and came to Cyrodiil? Everyone in the Blades knew of my arrival, so that they would be aware of my need for protection should insurrection arise during my stay in your… _nation_. Which, naturally, brings me back to the reason of my stay, to make a lady of a brute. Now, do we have a judge for our wager?"

"I will stand as judge," a man's voice responded.

He surfaced from behind one of the foyer's pillars, dressed in tones of grey, brown, and black. The color of his hood almost melted into the dark brown of his hair, secured in a ponytail at the back of his neck. His auburn eyes lacked the fire of Idayn's orange irises, but they were no less scrutinizing.

"_Lucien Lachance!_" Druzelle blurted. Her hands cupped her mouth the moment that the last syllable passed her tongue, and her eyes grew wide. Idayn was none the wiser for Druzelle's revelation.

"And who are you to judge, _Mr. Lachance_?" Idayn insisted. He emerged from the shadows, crossing the room casually with his hands tucked neatly behind his back.

"Let us say that I am Druzelle's _employer_," He cooed.

"Forgive me my indiscretion, but that is the Blades' job," Idayn unhesitatingly replied. Lucien circled her, breathed in the scent of coda flowers lingering on her neck and noted the luminous of the cloth she wore, and the circlet of pearls on her head. She was a blue-blood. That was for damned sure.

"Miss Dissentia is a woman of many talents and many careers," Lucien gracefully explained, "I am but one of those who employ her skills. But, having no personal… _investment_ in her well-being, and knowing full well the capacity for her lack of diplomacy-"

"_Lucien-_"

"-I am properly suited to judge the outcome of your work, Lady Naren. Or do you prefer Lady Eralas?" he finished.

"_Eralas. _And so be it," Idayn agreed, hesitation lingering in her tone, "Mr. Lachance shall see to the challenge that Druzelle and I have set."

--

Stretched out in the snow, staring up at the vast stars situated above her, Druzelle wiped her mind's slate clear of the events of the day. She certainly hated Idayn, and Lucien for crashing her lesson, however much of a reprieve from the brunt of the Dunmer's discipline that his action was. But more than both of them, she loathed her own circumstances. When she wore a dress, she felt like a sweet roll stuffed in the mouth of a gluttonous child. When she had to smile at people she genuinely didn't like, she felt even worse. She felt like a lie, as if she was making a farce of the world.

As if she was deceiving no one but herself.

Her hand crept across the snow and looped around Martin's arm. He lay sprawled across the ground alongside her, watching the stars with a quiet admiration for nature in his eyes. He was at peace, and Druzelle felt selfish confiding in him.

But Martin sensed her unease. He huddled closer to her, resting his cheek against the crest of her head, urging, "There is pain in your eyes."

"For Oblivion's sake, why should we ruin a perfectly good night talking about a perfectly shitty day?" Druzelle sighed, guilty for mentioning it. Martin combed her hair with his fingers.

"Because I won't allow you to go to bed angry later tonight," he answered, "I am aware that you dislike authority, and that you are hesitant to do what Idayn says because her personality is disagreeable, if not bitter. But neither of those things can account for the torment in your eyes. There is something else."

Druzelle rolled on her side and inside of Martin's cloak. She yielded, "Look, it's just that I don't like this idea, of diplomacy I mean. I don't want to put on a front. I'm too honest, too raw. It's as if… all of these greetings, and words, and actions, they're all a mask, a disguise. And for what? So that people think I'm someone I'm not?"

"You think that speaking well and treating others with respect is a mask?" Martin asked.

"If I can't call them out and tell them like it is, yes," Druzelle replied. Martin shrugged.

"Your point is valid, though your words are derisive," he admitted, "But I _know_ that you are capable of speaking well and treating others with respect, because that is the manner in which you treat me. So how is it a mask?"

"Because I don't want to be nice to everyone," She stated. Martin chuckled, rubbing the small of her back beneath her cape. She burrowed her nose into his side, hiding, lamenting, "Damnit, I'm a strong person. I have to be, and I have to be defensive. I get a lot of crap as a hero, and I've gotten myself into some pretty bad situations before. I was an idiot before I was shipped off to the Imperial Prison, I know, but because I was myself- you know, _abrasive_- I was able to get out alive with my dignity intact."

"But I think, for all her faults, that is what Idayn is trying to teach you. You can be honest and firm _without_ having to be abrasive. That's what diplomacy is for," Martin observed, sitting up. Druzelle remained strewn across the snow, gazing up at him. He sighed, "Listen, Dee, I love you. But think about _my_ future. If I live through the daedric invasion-"

"-you will-"

"-Then I will be made the emperor of Cyrodiil, and you, my wife. You will be the Empress of Tamriel. I admire your bravado- it is why I love you so much- but the kingdom at large may not. They will see you, as nobles like Idayn do, as forceful and uncompromising. I _know _that you are not like that, but ask yourself, will our people agree with me?"

"I hate to disappoint you, but I can't _be_ anything but myself," Druzelle mourned. Martin shook his head.

"Yet you are kind and patient in _my_ company, Dee. You _are_ a good person. I can say that as a former priest with certainty," Martin said, "I can _also_ say that I think your brashness towards others is just as much a mask as the mask that Idayn is teaching you to employ. Whether or not you heed her example, you are still being disingenuous to yourself."

"_Her_ example!" Druzelle huffed, "At least in private _I'm _nice! She pretends to be courtly and graceful and proper in front of the nobles, like Countess Carvain, but the moment _she_ enters closed doors, she's a bitc-"

"Which means that you already have an advantage over her," Martin suggested, adding, "Listen, Dee, please just do as she says. After all, the bet is on- and I do not think that Lucien Lachance would vote in your favor right now, given that you abandoned the Brotherhood without leave."

"Gah, don't say that!" Druzelle laughed, "You know how badly I hate to let you down."

"Then for Akatosh's sake," he smiled, "_Behave_ next time Idayn enters a room."

--

"How did you know my name?" Idayn demanded.

Lucien turned around in the hall, grinning. He closed the book he was casually reading, and set it down on the windowsill.

"Ah, Lady Eralas," he greeted, "It is an honor to finally speak to the Nerevarine alone."

"_Tell me how you knew my maiden name_," she ordered.

"You mean _Naren_?" he asked nonchalantly, "I know much about you, the least of which knowledge is the matter of your name. For example, I am well aware that you are a master of the Morag Tong, and a very talented archer. You were employed as Eno Hlaalu's private sniper for many years."

"_Enough_."

"Oh, but I am far from finished," Lucien responded, "I also know that the Naren family is prized for their generations-long service to the Morag Tong. You descend from a pedigree of assassins, who've disguised their careers with their blue-blooded politics and economic interests for centuries. How do I know this? You will find that the Dark Brotherhood know many things, my lady."

"Eno Hlaalu and Chancellor Ocato know that I am here," Idayn warned firmly. Lucien stepped in closer towards her, nearly pinning her against the corridor wall.

"Your Grandmaster is tied up in business far away in Morrowind, and Ocato has an empire to manage," he reminded her. The sound of satisfaction in his voice was overwhelming. He inched closer, but Idayn retaliated instantly. Her foot was lodged against his chest, a knife pressed to his throat before he could think to escape both of them. Lucien chuckled. His throat rumbled against the blunt side of the blade, "You must be a fool to think I'd kill you, Lady Eralas."

"I find _that_ immensely ironic coming from a child of Sithis," Idayn hissed.

"Come now, we both know how unwise it would be to let guild tensions come between us," he said, "I am here only to protect Druzelle from the broader interests of the Morag Tong. I think it is obvious that she is my sister in Sithis, just as we are all aware of your history with the Morag Tong. None of us, for fear of retaliation from the others, are about to betray our secrets. So why would I risk the Legion's involvement by killing the Nerevarine on a highly publicized political visit and bring unnecessary attention to our guilds?"

"Indeed. Druzelle is far too valuable to the empire to kill, as am I. But _your_ loss would be no tragedy," Idayn answered, "I need not slaughter you myself. If I do as little as reveal you as an agent of the Dark Brotherhood, the Blades will leap to my defense and cut you down where you stand."

"Thus betraying the interests of our precious hero, _Druzelle_," He countered. Idayn's lips tightened and she removed the knife from against Lucien's throat, returning it to the scabbard on her leg.

"I have publicly executed your Brothers," Idayn reminded him.

"And I've raped and murdered your Sisters," Lucien retorted, smiling, "Truly, if we must cooperate, I shall enjoy our quarrels."

He stepped aside and slithered down the hall. Whenever he was gone, Idayn patted her thigh. Her knife had disappeared.

--

Dram was charged with many things. Carrying Lady Eralas's luggage, arranging Lady Eralas's wardrobe, seeing to Lady Eralas's housing, introducing Lady Eralas, writing on behalf of Lady Eralas, booking appointments for Lady Eralas, and boosting Lady Eralas's dwindling morale. But he had never been asked to travel cross-country across the whole of Cyrodiil to the city of Cheydinhal to complete so innocuous a task as personally deliver a message to the city's Dunmer ruler, one Count Indarys.

With lost faith in his lady's ability to have simply penned a letter (and with even less faith in the reliability of Cyrodiil's mail service), Dram traveled on horseback from Bruma to the Imperial City, and from there, to Cheydinhal. He entered the city looking quite the worse for wear, his hair frazzled and his velvet doublet dirtied and disheveled. The guards offered to escort him to the castle, and after the town crier belched Dram's intentions out to the entire city- introducing him as the noble companion to the much-beloved Nerevarine- the Dunmer native cheered for his entry. The fame was overwhelming, really, and Dram's green cheeks reddened with embarrassment as he approached the palace.

The Dark Brotherhood was watching him. Rather audibly, in fact.

"Antoinetta, keep your damn trap shut!" Telaendril seethed, "You're going to give us away."

"I _know_ what I'm _doing_," the blonde woman sulked, "Lucien Lachance _knows_ real talent when he sees it."

"I am wondering how I got stuck on the surface with you," Teinaava sighed.

In retrospect, loitering around a tree in the castle courtyard was hardly secretive. Standing at the trunk, the three assassins had chosen to dress according to the style of the nobles that lingered around the castle. Telaendril wore green linens, Antoinetta, purple damask, and Teinaava, the tattered rags of their Argonian servant. The two women would have passed ostensibly as noblewomen, and Teinaava as a serf, had they not been whispering and shifting their eyes nervously about every time a guard ventured passed and eyed them disdainfully.

It also didn't help that Antoinetta had applied lipstick so bright that she nearly passed for a prostitute. Telaendril considered joking that the woman's lips were so bright that they looked like the blood of her victims, but since that probably _was_ the case, she refrained from commenting.

"Whenever we capture Lady Eralas's servant, Lucien Lachance is going to be _so _proud of me," Antoinetta said. Telaendril's hands coiled into fists so tight, she thought her leather gloves would burst.

"That's right, Antoinetta, say it out in the open!" Telaendril shouted, "Lucien doesn't even know we're out here! Neither does Vicente! It's supposed to be a surprise! So keep quiet!"

"Is there a problem?"

The Bosmer spun around, and was face to face with an Imperial Guard.

"Not at all, good sir. This sad lady was just confessing her sexual exploits with this Argonian. Carry on."

"_Excuse me_!" Antoinetta shrieked as the guard scurried away.

"I resent that," Teinaava seconded.

"Goddamnit, you two," Telaendril hissed, scathing, "The Dunmer is coming. Look inconspicuous."

"Sex with a lizard…"

"_Enough with the sex-_"

The three assassins hurried closed their mouths as the escorts and the Dunmer traversed the courtyard and entered the castle.

"Now what?" Antoinetta asked.

"I thought _you_ were the master assassin," Telaendril mumbled.

"We're going to wait here until he comes out, and jump him," Teinaava explained whenever the guards had cleared the courtyard.

"Oh, sure, _that_ will work. What if he stays there overnight!" Telaendril exclaimed.

"The Count isn't going to offer a messenger accommodations," Teinaava purred darkly, "But the Dark Brotherhood will… in the Cheydinhal Sanctuary."

"Is that supposed to sound ominous?" Antoinetta inquired.

"It was supposed to be a joke," Telaendril replied, adding sarcastically, "Ha. Ha. Ha."

"Good thing Gogron isn't here. Talk about indiscretion," Teinaava considered aloud.

"For the love of Sithis, make sure he doesn't get his hands on the Dunmer," Telaendril sighed, "We won't be able to interrogate him if Gogron's squeeze the elf's lungs out of his nostrils. The _point_ of capturing this servant is to get information about Lady Eralas and transfer it to Lucien."

"And also because we wouldn't be able to capture Lady Eralas herself," Teinaava said.

"What do you mean?" Antoinetta pouted.

"She's heavily guarded, is a master archer, and probably won't be coming to Cheydinhal anytime soon, if I know how badly Druzelle is in need of her help," Telaendril explained.

"_I _would be talented enough to capture her," Antoinetta responded.

"You're right," Telaendril smirked, "We _should_ have sent you after her."

"That wasn't supposed to be a compliment," Teinaava clarified.

"Siblings, look!" Antoinetta pointed.

Dram was emerging from the castle doors. Telaendril pounced on Antoinetta, letting the Dunmer proceed ahead a few feet before she dashed off, silent, behind him. Teinaava growled, realizing their plan hadn't worked as smoothly as he'd anticipated, and darted off in from of the Dunmer to corner him. Antoinetta and Telaendril were able to wrestle the Dunmer down, pinning his arms to his sides.

"Help! Help!" The Dunmer squealed, "I'm under attack! Guards!"

"Praise Sithis," Teinaava said, burying his forehead in his palm. A swarm of guards descended on them.

"What seems to be the problem, citizen?" One of them declared.

"Oh, these two lovely noble ladies, my mistresses, had invited Sir Dram for tea. They were merely so thrilled to meet the respected companion of the Nerevarine that they simply could not contain themselves, and so they jumped him. It was a misunderstanding," Teinaava nervously chirped.

"_HELP ME!_" Dram screamed.

"Instead of rebuking them," Teinaava said over the Dunmer's shrieks, "He chose to demonstrate Dunmer battle cries instead, to their _sheer humor_."

Telaendril and Antoinetta laughed on cue.

"Ah. I see," the guard observed, scratching his chin, "Carry on, then."

Dram's appeals weakened as the guards dispersed down the hill.

"Well, well, now," Telaendril chuckled, "What do we have here? The trusted slave of Lady Eralas?"

"Damn you! Damn you!" Dram snapped, "Release me immediately!"

"To the sanctuary with you!" Antoinetta declared maniacally.

"You are now a prisoner of the Dark Brotherhood," Teinaava announced.

They began to carry him off towards the city, and dumping him into a well. He tumbled downwards, landing flat on his face in a chamber illuminated entirely in red. Upon his landing, he sat up, rubbing his throbbing forehead, and as his vision cleared, noted a throng of black-clad murderers encircling him, the scarlet lighting of the room illuminating the twisted, crazed grins on their faces.

It was going to be a _very_ long holiday, indeed.

--

**Author's Notes**

I was racing to get this posted before the busyness of the weekend rolled around, and so I was editing and writing all at once. Please let me know if you find any mechanical errors. As always, I encourage your criticism and am sincerely grateful for your readership!

Cheers-

Valah


	3. Chapter 3

**CONTUMELY**

**Chapter Three**

"That's the incorrect footstep," Idayn frowned, "The dance moves in a three-part series of steps, and you were on the third, not the second. Begin at the introduction once more. We try from the beginning."

Druzelle moaned and rubbed her forehead. It was nine in the evening, cold, and even Martin- her dance partner for the evening- gasped for air as they paused in their practice. She rubbed her sweating palms on her dress and griped, "I think that I've improved more than you thought I would in a single evening. Can I go to sleep now?"

"There is no rest for the wicked, Miss Dissentia," Idayn curtly replied, "And until you can curb your insufferableness, your practice shall not end until you have perfected your art. Start at the beginning, please."

"What is the point of dancing, anyway?" Druzelle groaned. Idayn planted her hands on her hips, irritated.

"Did we not already discuss this?" She asked, "No, no don't respond. Allow me to clarify, Miss Dissentia: it is my duty to culture you, in hopes that I may curb your savagery. And _dancing_ is an essential component to the culture of the court."

"I really don't see how dancing will make me any less obnoxious," Druzelle chuckled.

"Perhaps it will distract you from conversations that could otherwise end disastrously, given your lack of communicative talent," Martin joked. She wrinkled her nose in mock disgust.

"Oh, _Your Highness_, I am so _dreadfully_ offended at the weight of your most _unpleasant words_!" Druzelle sarcastically exclaimed, elevating her voice to a nasally wheeze.

Idayn mumbled, "Miss Dissentia, you are not the only one who tires here. Compose yourself and begin again."

Druzelle swung her arms around Martin's hips and began the dance with such immense enthusiasm that she looked utterly ridiculous. When she completed the dance in full, she tore herself from Martin's arms and dove into a bow in front of Idayn.

"Now, Lady Eralas, may I _please_ go to bed?" She asked. Idayn curtsied.

"_Yes_," the Dunmer sighed, "And make haste. We rise early on the morrow to practice your table etiquette."

"Actually, I'm looking forward to that lesson," Druzelle confessed, "The food is going to be _amazing_."

"Very funny, Miss Dissentia. You are dismissed," Idayn muttered in reply. Martin in tow, Druzelle plodded off for the private quarters, her soft suede shoes padding on the wooden floor. The guards dispersed, departing after their master's leave and the hero's finished lesson for their bedrolls. They extinguished the fire in the foyer of the temple, leaving only the weak candlelight to illuminate the hall like stars lofted high in the darkness of the ceiling.

"She treated you with much more respect tonight," Lucien grumbled. He was leaning casually against a pillar, staring into an empty tankard. Idayn shrugged, and paced the room.

"It has been nearly three weeks," Idayn remarked, "Progress is inevitable for those who are intelligent enough to realize it is necessary."

"You undervalue your ability to teach her," he suggested.

"I do not take insincere compliments lightly, Mr. Lachance."

"I merely voice my jealousy that it was a Tong agent, and not I, who tamed her."

"She has not been tamed; she has been cultured."

"Is there a difference, Lady Eralas?"

Idayn violently swung around to face him. She exclaimed, "I have seen progress with Druzelle, but none with you. Three weeks have passed, and yet you still follow in my heels and antagonize me at every opportunity. Am I of so much interest to you? Has the Brotherhood sent you as an informant, to learn what you can of me before you relieve me of my life's existence?"

"You think _far_ too highly of my intentions," he said.

"Oh, so they are baser?" she sternly, calmly responded, "Have you personal qualms with me, that exclude the will of what you laughably call your 'guild'?"

"That isn't what I mean," he growled, "You estimate my intentions to be far worse than what they are."

"And what are your intentions, Mr. Lachance?" Idayn inquired. He shook his head, setting his empty tankard on the tableside. He strolled across the room, around Idayn, and meandered down the other side of the foyer where the shadows could not illuminate his face.

"You fascinate me, Idayn. You and your… _couth_. You claim to be an assassin, but you are so preoccupied with the trappings of high society that I cannot envision you murdering anyone without feeling obliged to polish the floor clean of your victim's blood and leaving an apology letter for the mess of dead bodies heaped on the floor."

"Pardon me, but snipers are _exceptionally_ clean killers."

"That's not my assertion, Lady Eralas," he replied, creeping behind her. He tilted his chin towards her neck and breathed softly, just enough to raise the hairs on her neck, "I focus not on your style of killing but the fact that you do it at all."

"Do not tempt me," she murmured.

"Oh, but I already have," he said, "Draw your knife on me, Lady Eralas. I dare you to."

"I will not submit to an exhibition of my power," she resisted.

"Then it appears I have you in a position of complete defenselessness," he replied. Whenever Idayn reeled around to face him, he had dematerialized into the shadows of the room. She could hear his guttural laugh reverberating, echoing through her. Idayn pawed at her belt, groping wildly for her knife.

It was no longer there.

"Good night, Lady Eralas," she heard the assassin call. His voice resounded. When she followed the noise and felt about in the shadows, he was no longer there, and she was left unarmed, alone, and in a cold room far from the castle and the reprieve of a warm bed. She left, miserable as always, and began to trek through the snow towards the castle gates.

--

The last mission Lucien Lachance expected to be on was a diplomatic excursion. He hadn't donned pressed linen or fine suede in decades, and they made a poor substitute for stiff leather armor, a warm hood over his head, and a bloodied short sword at his belt. Chapeaus and velvet gloves were unnecessary. Blue-bloods wore the most ridiculous and impractical items of clothing.

He fantasized about how he'd punish Druzelle for causing him to wear skin-tight breeches. After all, she'd broken one of the Five Tenets. She'd stolen from him. She'd stolen his dignity.

For the most part, Lucien kept quiet. Between Druzelle and Idayn, there was enough moaning and whining to last the rest of the Cloud Ruler Temple dwellers a lifetime, and he wasn't about to invoke either of the women's wrath by registering a complaint about his breeches (after all, he doubted that any of the ladies minded his rather scandalous pants).

In truth, Lucien's grievances were mere trifles, and he found greater joy than misery stalking the Morag Tong woman through the Temple. Idayn Eralas knew that Lucien followed her. That was the pleasure in it. He'd never tried following her into town, and after three weeks' time, he was yet content to watch her as she meandered down the hill side towards the castle for a full night's rest. He would stand on the ramparts, observing her like a serpent would warily watch a mongoose, until the shimmer of her satin gowns flickered away like a candle in the breeze.

That night, however, he leaped off the stairs and tracked her.

Idayn weaved down the mountain and slithered through the city gate. Lucien nearly lost her as he passed the guards, but caught a glimpse of her orange dress as she rounded a building and moved down the pavement towards the inn.

He'd taken her kind captive before.

To be fair, he had no advantage on Idayn. She was a skilled assassin, a sniper. Subterfuge was as natural to her as swimming was to a fish. No, she wasn't his victim, not his prey, not in the physical meaning of the word. That wasn't why he followed her. She was his equal, his opponent, perpetually locked in a guild war with her. He _couldn't _victimize her, he realized after meeting her in the hallway and having her knife pressed against his throat.

He entered the inn after her.

She was seated at the quiet, discreet end of the bar, her legs demurely crossed, her back as stiff as a rail. She listened to his footsteps, he knew, because her chin was lifted and locked to the side ever so slightly. Her hands clutched the goblet set before her. Lucien removed his hood and approached her. Idayn's cheek rose. She was smiling.

"May I treat you to a drink, Mr. Lachance, or do you prefer to watch me enjoy mine alone?" She asked. He snorted, and sank down onto the stool next to her at the end of the bar.

"It is a gentleman's obligation to pay for a lady's drink," He mused.

"Is it?" She inquired, and signaled to the inn keeper, "Bring him a stein. Fill it with what he pleases."

"A goblet, dear sir," Lucien corrected, "The lady can pay for my sherry."

When the inn keeper disappeared behind the bar, Idayn chuckled delicately, "I would not think you to have such refined tastes."

"I don't generally drink," he muttered, "I ordered what you have."

"For one who does not indulge in alcohol, you know wine very well to simply glance at mine and know its variety," she replied.

"Hardly," he answered, "I noticed your wine goblet, glanced at the order of fare, and chose the priciest one on the menu."

"You think me pretentious."

"I think you _wealthy_," he censured as the bar tender filled his cup, "Though it baffles me still why a woman of such standing would bother becoming a contract killer."

"It is my family's legacy," she said, savoring a sip of her wine, "You observed it yourself when first we met."

"I wonder," Lucien brooded, "Does the Naren family use their nobility to mask their sordid employment in the Morag Tong, or is it reversed?"

"Either and neither, Mr. Lachance," Idayn responded.

"Ah, so you're going to play coy with me."

"I'm not playing in the least," she noted, "I merely find your strategy unfair. You wish to know everything about me, while telling me nothing of yourself in return."

"You haven't asked."

"I am not generally in the habit of becoming acquainted with my enemies, because I am a professional," Idayn said, "I know my target's name and location, and that is enough. Their deaths, and _not_ their lives, are my business. Likewise, I need not know you. I need only know that you are my nemesis."

"Therein is why the Dark brotherhood is universally feared, while the Morag Tong is not," Lucien stated, stealing a swig of wine from his cup. He set it down on the countertop with a thump, and momentarily noticed Idayn's hand wrapped around the base of her goblet. Her pink diamond glittered on her ring finger. The Imperial shook his head, "You still wear your wedding band."

Idayn withdrew her hand from the cup, burying it into the folds of her dress.

"My lady, it is common knowledge that your husband has been dead now for years," he scathed.

"It is merely a reminder that life is temporary," She explained. Lucien was inclined to believe her.

"It was not the Brotherhood that killed him, you know," Lucien began, but Idayn interrupted him with a long, cynical laugh.

"Does that mean _anything_?" She snapped, "The Dark Brotherhood assassinates everyone, from beggars to emperors. They do not discriminate, and so it would not be significant if it was your Brotherhood that slaughtered him. It matters not that they were the ones who took my husband's life; it matters only that it is gone."

"You misjudge the threat of the Brotherhood, Lady Eralas," Lucien growled, but his responses did not affect her tone.

"King Helseth ordered the Brotherhood to kill _me_. I should think I know the extent of your organization's reputation, not in the least because I answer to Eno Hlaalu. Do not speak ill of my knowledge, for I know full well the capacities of your siblings in Sithis," Idayn berated, "I know the intent of the misinformation you try so desperately to cultivate. You fear that I will use Druzelle to strike out at the Dark Brotherhood, in retaliation of my husband's murder."

"We both know that you are smarter than that, Lady Eralas," Lucien retorted. Idayn stood from her bar stool.

"I am smart enough to know that though I have no disguised intentions," she murmured, "I am certain of yours."

"You are a fool to venture them," he warned.

Idayn dropped a satchel of coins on the bar top and fled. Lucien dashed after her, huffing air as he bolted through the snow. She was heading for the southern city gates into the wilderness. He blazed after her, the flutter of her orange dress fading fast. Groaning, he elevated his pace, until at last- in the middle of a snowy field, with nothing but empty landscape around them- he pounced on her, tackling her to the snow. Though she struggled, his brute strength overcame her writhing, and she fell limp and panting in his arms. It was too far from the city for the guards to hear her if she cried out. She did not.

"End my life now, murderer," she taunted.

"_Why do you run from me?_" he demanded.

"Why do you follow?" she hissed, "Why, if I were to jog all the way to Valenwood, would you pursue me? Are your intents so grave?"

"My _intent_," he growled, "Is to protect Druzelle."

"The Brotherhood would not send one of its Speakers to complete such an innocuous task," she commented, wriggling her arms free from him. Her orange eyes sparked, "You're hiding something from me, Mr. Lachance, and so desperately as to monitor my every move, as if fretfully. Is it Druzelle you watch, or me?"

"I watch _you_ because I protect _Druzelle_," he answered.

"So I make you apprehensive, Mr. Lachance? What is it that you fear in me that drives you to stalk me into taverns and run me down into the snow?" She asked. He bit his tongue, and tasted blood on his gums. She had set a trap, he realized, to test if he would follow. He'd fallen for it. _Twice_. He freed her, and stood from the snow, brushing it from the front of his breeches.

"You invite suspicion," he reasoned, though it was a weak argument, and as she collected herself from the ground she smiled discretely for it.

"Mr. Lachance," she admonished, "I am a hero, and what I do at any given moment is scrutinized intensely by many more people than you alone. If you suspect me of any subversion, you would not be the first to inform me of it."

"Oh? Then why has no one noted that your _manservant_ departed under mysterious circumstances, just before _I _arrived, for the city of Cheydinhal?" Lucien interrogated. Idayn chuckled.

"I cannot accuse the Dark Brothers for their lack of vigilance, that is for certain," she admitted, "I sent my servant Dram to Count Indarys with regrets to an invitation he had extended to me. I did not think it was business worthy of publicizing."

"I am not inclined to believe you," he snorted.

"Very well, then," she replied. An awkward pause spanned between them until Idayn curtsied and said, "I depart for Castle Bruma. I bid you a good night, and ask that you do not try so hard to follow me. My intentions are plain, and your efforts to complicate their meaning would be in immense vain."

As she tramped back towards the city, Lucien stood dumbfounded and shivering in her midst. His plan had proved fruitless, and she had unmasked him for the agent he was, all in the span of a night. It made him question the extent of her knowledge, and left him even more terrified of the possibility that she wasn't spying on the Brotherhood. Perhaps she already had the information he prayed she did not.

And perhaps Druzelle- the Dark Brotherhood- had already paid the price for it.

_--_

A metallic thud disrupted Martin from his studies. He glanced up at the table to see a plate of bread and apple slices placed gingerly before him. In its silvery rim, he saw Druzelle's reflection. His azure eyes rose to see her, dressed in a linen night gown, standing above him. He greedily snatched a piece of the fruit, chomping on it before he said, "I'm glad to share my life with a woman who thinks so highly of intensive study as to recognize its physical effects on a full-grown man."

"I've spent enough time researching with the brains at the Arcane University to know that 'food for thought' has nothing to do with the content of the books they study," Druzelle quipped, adding, "Don't tell me to eat any, by the way. I already gorged myself on the pies stashed in the dining hall."

Martin gulped down a mouthful of bread, managing with crumbs fluttering from his lips, "Good- this is all for me."

Druzelle snickered as he feasted away and bit into the last slice of apple with a ravenousness she had never seen in him before. She commented, "If food is the fuel of thought, you must be _very_ overworked."

"Not overworked," he clarified, "Only concerned."

"Oh, for Akatosh's sake, don't say for me," she groaned as she sat down across the table from him. He shrugged.

"Indirectly, I suppose," he said, "I'm beginning to think that you've improved, in Lady Eralas's eyes. I see you growing more cultured, more… proper, as a lady is. And I can't help thinking that you're starting to act as a queen of Tamriel would. As my wife would."

"Speak any more highly of me and my overinflated ego is bound to burst," she threatened playfully. But he frowned, and Druzelle sensed that his words were only a preface to something far darker than she thought.

"But when I see you as a lady, and as a queen, I don't ever see the hero. I don't see the muddy, sweaty, exhausted and beautiful woman that led the survivors of Kvatch out of that Oblivion gate," he uttered.

"That's ridiculous!" Druzelle exclaimed, "Idayn is a hero and a lady."

"No, she is an _assassin_ and a lady," he justified, "She may have saved Morrowind, but she isn't a warrior, a leader, not like you are. She's a blueblood. The common people can't relate to her, even if they worship her as their savior."

"Well, then she's a hero, and I'm a champion," Druzelle figured. Martin nodded sadly.

"Yes, you're exactly right. And I don't want to lose that part of you, I- I-" he stammered, "It is as if the longer you endure these lessons, the more of the champion I lose, and the more people are going to begin looking to _me _as their champion."

"I should hope they think you a champion already if you plan on becoming emperor!" Druzelle smiled. Martin only shook his head sadly.

"I haven't shed the blood and tears you have, Dee," he lamented, "I don't want to steal the glory of your accomplishments from you, not in the eyes of our people. I don't want people to see you as my wife first and a champion last, or worse, at me as their champion."

"You're tired," Druzelle reasoned, "You're worried about a lot of things. And they're all beginning to sound incoherent."

"I think you know what I'm getting at," Martin sighed.

Druzelle snorted, and situated her palms behind her head casually. She replied, "You think that if I become queen, people will forget that I'm champion of Cyrodiil and treat me like all other queens in history- like a thoughtless, proper little pixie of a woman whose only purpose is to give birth to sons. And you think that _you_ are going to be seen as the man who emerged from Kvatch a hero, and a champion."

"Precisely," he commended softly. Druzelle merely yawned, cupping a hand over her mouth.

"Look, the fact that Idayn is transforming me into a courtly lady doesn't mean that I can't be a warrior, too. Whoever said that a woman who gets bloody in battle can't have manners when she's not eviscerating orcs and beheading Daedra?"

"Men do it all the time," Martin responded darkly.

"Well _you_ don't," Druzelle remarked, "And if you're the emperor, you can change that."

"How? By telling people that I'm no hero, telling them the truth, that it was you who won these battles and tore through our enemies?" Martin asked.

"You don't seem to mind inflating my ego, so sure, why not?" Druzelle joked, "Let everyone know precisely how accomplished and talented that I truly am. In fact, put it at the top of your agenda for the empire, if only to see Ocato's face when you do."

--

"I admit, Miss Dissentia," Idayn grumbled, "Your progress is astonishing."

Druzelle stood in the middle of the foyer, hands on her knees, as she panted for breath. The dance was the most complex of the handful that Idayn expected her to learn. Practicing it through the halls of the temple in the evening had done wonders to perfect her craft. Not to mention, she discovered that intensive practice was an even more strenuous exercise than sparring was. Her leg muscles burned gloriously when she plopped into bed each night. The ache felt even better now that Idayn, for once, applauded her efforts.

"Thank you," she replied, and composed herself, "I practiced the damn dance all last-"

"Darn."

"The _darn_ dance all last night," Druzelle corrected. She smirked, "Looks like I'm on track to win that bet, Idayn. You're in for a huge disappointment."

"On the contrary, it would be to my immense pleasure to culture someone like you," Idayn declared, curtsying to the Imperial, "No more lessons for today."

"But it is only afternoon, _my lady_," Druzelle remarked with a note of cynicism, "Aren't I proving my table manners today to you at lunch? I'm doing better than I did at breakfast before, and I have much improvement to show to win this gamble."

Idayn scoffed, "You are to practice with Countess Carvain today, without my instruction. She will better assess your table etiquette than I will."

"Copping out?" Druzelle chided. Idayn dismissed the violinist who had provided the music for the lesson, and gathered her cloak from the chair behind her.

"Hardly. Table manners in Morrowind differ from those in Tamriel, and the etiquette of humans is not my specialty," The Dunmer succinctly replied, "There is a point at which I may instruct you, and a point at which the nuances of your culture are beyond my interests enough to teach them well. That is why the Countess has volunteered to educate you. Obviously, you are to treat her with as much if not more respect than you do me. She does not volunteer her aid out of any contractual obligations, as I do. I dismiss you; depart for the castle. The stewards will direct you to the Countess's dining halls."

Druzelle grinded her teeth as she stomped out the door, forgetting her cape in the frustration associated with her departure. Idayn knew that Druzelle would loathe her for abdicating her duties to the Countess, who would be much nicer and yet far more critical of the young hero. The room appeared empty save the Dunmer when Druzelle left, but Idayn sensed the presence of another person in the room, and she immediately concluded that it was the damned assassin.

"I know you are here. You've been lingering since before Druzelle entered," Idayn stated coldly. Lucien emerged from the corner of the chamber, sulking out towards its center, where he procured a knife from his pocket.

"You lost this," Lucien murmured.

Idayn hesitated, and the Imperial extended the hilt of the stolen knife towards her. She took it from him, examining it keenly.

"It's not poisoned," he clarified.

"I didn't lose it. You stole it from me," Idayn corrected, "It was a vulgar display of your prowess in subtlety and discretion, and it impressed me little."

"Is that jealousy I hear in your voice, my lady?" He asked. She tucked the knife back into its scabbard, tugging her skirt over top her leg to conceal it.

"You mock me because you think your guild superior to mine," she uttered, "But permit me a clarification. The Dark Brotherhood is not a guild, it is a death cult. It is a faction of killers driven by sensation, whether that feeling be power, bloodlust, or greed. You are motivated by emotion. My guild, the Morag Tong, is a guild of professionals. We are talented, skilled, and share a common belief that our guild keeps house wars from ruining the nation of Morrowind and decimating its people. But we are not ruled by a drive to create suffering, terror, and fear wherever we tread, as you try to incite in me."

"Your arrogance is astonishing," Lucien hissed, but Idayn's expression did not change.

"If you accept that, then I need not torment you with words. I am content in the truth that I am a skilled killer of an exclusive and selective guild, whereas you must compensate for the depravity of your position with cruel words against my character," Idayn replied, "The difference between you and I, Mr. Lachance, is that I am an assassin and you are a murderer. No amount or extremity of words will ever lower me to your level."

She curtsied.

"Have a lovely evening, Mr. Lachance," she said.

She cast her cloak over her shoulders. She was leaving again, fleeting, and this time he wouldn't leave her with the upper hand. He clenched his fists, his cheeks hot with anger and frustration, and a searing passion for something- for her, to conquer her, what he could not. He shouted before she managed to reach the door, booming, "_This conversation isn't over_."

Idayn whirled around. Her teeth were clenched. She barked, "I have already dismissed myself, Mr. Lachance."

"_Is that how you escape all your problems, by leaving as you see fit to flee the consequences of your words_?" He bellowed, "_Is that how you handled the death of your husband, too? Fled whenever there was no more use for words because you feared the truth others had to tell you?_"

Idayn's voice fell to a furious, quaking whisper, "Recant those words."

"_No!_" he snapped, "You expect to disparage me and leave when you are finished, to mistreat Druzelle and excuse her before she may retaliate. You would be cut down for such insolence if you had joined the Dark Brotherhood. But it seems that the Morag Tong is much more tolerant of insubordinate agents. They certainly did not protest whenever the Dark Brotherhood rebelled and rose from the ashes of your powerless organization."

"The Morag Tong does not kill for pleasure and profit. How _dare_ you compare us to your cult," Idayn threatened. Lucien laughed aloud, bitter.

"_You're the one comparing my guild to yours!_" he countered sharply. Idayn merely pressed her lips closed and spun around, heading for the door again. Lucien mocked, "Did you run away like you do when you saw your mutilated husband dying on your bedroom floor?"

Idayn halted, motionless. Lucien hissed, "You left him to die alone, didn't you, _Iddy_?"

He could see her chest start to rise forcibly as she heaved for air. She was beginning to weep. He had expected her to assault him. There was a great part of him that wanted to feel her sinewy hands grappling for his wrists, to let her shriek and shout and wildly launch her knife at him. He longed to feel her struggling against him, to feel the throb of her veins and the beating of her heart as his machinations finally climaxed.

He never expected to ruin his own plan, but having desired her to attack him, it was such a small sacrifice to make. Instead, he had pierced the core of her sorrow, the heart of her misery, and she was helpless to retaliate.

"You murdered him," she breathed. He did not refute her. She faced him, and he saw that she tried in vain to summon tears that she did not have to shed. Her face was twisted in sorrow that she was not even granted the solace of tears to relieve. She recoiled, walking backward to the doors. She stumbled into them, and weakly pried them open. She staggered out into the cold.

The blue, wintry light of the late afternoon cast a despondent, desolate light over the orange of her eyes, extinguishing their fire entirely. It was the last glance of her face that Lucien savored before the door slammed in place, and he was left in the empty chill of the foyer with only the dry, unforgiving air of winter to stifle his ambivalence.

--

**Author's Notes**

My literature courses have sapped the bulk of my writing time away from me, leaving me with little time to write and less to edit this story. If you see any errors or have suggestions, please let me know. _Also, if you don't mind me asking, which dynamic do you prefer and want to see more of in the next chapter: Druzelle/Martin or Lucien/Idayn?_

Thanks and happy reading!

Valah


	4. Chapter 4

**CONTUMELY**

**Chapter Four**

Martin inhaled the balmy scent of mead wafting from the bar. Druzelle's laughter had grown guttural and strained from booze and drunkenness. She usually held her alcohol admirably well, but after two weeks of Idayn's absence and with the Countess as her teacher, Druzelle realized that she preferred the Dunmer lady and decided to drink off her regret. She missed Idayn. When she had fled unannounced, Druzelle lost all motivation to hone her etiquette. Sessions with the Countess were brutally boring. Druzelle excused herself from the bar, staggering off of her seat and out the door. Martin heard her vomiting outside.

"Some fiancé you are," Lucien muttered. Martin glanced over at the assassin next to him and frowned.

"I _can't_ interfere," he answered, "She's an angry drunk, and I'm not nearly as handy with my fists as she is. Not even when I'm sober and she's inebriated."

"Hmph. Can't control your woman," Lucien growled into his stein. Martin laughed bitterly.

"Oh, and you can? How long has Idayn been gone, assassin?" Martin challenged. Lucien huffed.

"Say _assassin_ any louder and I'll assassinate _you_," Lucien threatened dully.

Martin mumbled, "That's not my point."

Lucien rapped his fingers on the bar top and swished the ale in his stein. He momentarily peered at the priest, weighed his words, and concluded, "She's not my woman. She is _a_ woman."

"That's a poor argument," Martin rebuked, "You've been… _moping around_ since she left, and you haven't made the slightest effort to find her. You're wallowing in your misery."

"For Sithis's _sake_, I'm a _murderer_," he sighed.

"Oh, say _Dark Brotherhood _any louder and the guards will pounce for you," Martin rejoined, "Your career isn't a scapegoat for your idiocy, you know. Druzelle is _fed-up_ now that the Countess is droning on about the significance of forks, and you're acting like a heartbroken fool."

"Who knew that the loss of one egotistical elf would ruin us in such a manner?" Lucien smirked. Martin snatched the assassin's stein off the bar top and spilled its contents on the floor. Lucien pounded his fists on the table, exclaiming, "_You're _paying for that one, priest!"

All the bar's patrons fell quiet. Lucien picked the stein off the floor and set it on the bar top. As the stunned silence waned, he hissed, "_Damn it_, Martin, I have my assassins searching for Lady Eralas as we speak."

"I assume there hasn't been word yet," Martin replied. Lucien crawled back onto his bar stool.

"Of course not," he snarled, "I'm loath to admit it, but Idayn is an accomplished assassin. She knows how to hide her tracks, even when she's emotional and reckless. If she doesn't want to be found, we aren't going to find her. All my agents have reported is that she is likely outside the city of Bravil."

"How do they know?" Martin asked.

Lucien shrugged, "I suppose it is difficult to be totally undetectable when you are the famed Nerevarine. I figured that she wouldn't risk traveling alone across Cyrodiil, not whenever the Oblivion gates have appeared and her retinue is currently housed in the Imperial City."

"When will you go after her?" Martin inquired. Lucien hesitated, but at long last shook his head and growled.

"I am prepared to leave on the morrow," he announced.

"Lachance?"

"Yes, priest?"

"What did you tell her? Why did she leave?" Martin asked. The assassin's brows furrowed.

"I gave her the information she was seeking," he said, "I gave her closure."

"You should have lied to her," Martin said. Lucien cocked his head suspiciously, gathering his cloak from the unoccupied seat and casting it over his shoulders. Druzelle's coughing from outside filled the silence between them.

"Best see to your woman," Lucien suggested grimly, and departed before the priest received his answer.

--

Dram whined. Teinaava moaned.

"Can't you shut that ashborn trap of yours?" the Argonian complained from his chair at the dinner table, "The amount of crying you do will not lead to your release. You will find that the resolve of the Dark Brotherhood exceeds that of normal men and mer."

"Speak for yourself," Telaendril grumbled, leaning in towards the Dunmer from across the buffet of food, "Weep another word and I'll take your tongue out."

"Now, now, he needs his tongue to tell us more about his pretty mistress," Antoinetta smiled broadly, "Lucien Lachance asked us to _nicely_ request information."

"And if you don't comply, well, we'll just have to resort to more _severe_ measures," Ocheeva chuckled cruelly.

"So that Antoinetta can get her sexual favor from Lucien for doing such a _wonderful job _interrogating you," Telaendril grinned.

Antoinetta pouted from across the table, "You're a bigger headache than the Dunmer, Telaendril."

"Be nice," Gogron managed between mouthfuls of chicken meat. Teinaava snatched a boiled egg from a platter and devoured it in a fell swoop of his reptilian jaws, tossing one of the eggs to the prisoner.

"Chow down, ashborn," he said, "Never know when it'll be your last meal."

"Oh, for Sithis's sake, Teinaava!" Ocheeva snarled, glaring at the prisoner, "Look, Dunmer, we need know only where your lady would have fled to. Word from Lucien Lachance reported that she had fled Bruma, and has been gone for quite some time. He wants her back."

"What, to kill her as he did her husband?" Dram hissed. The room fell eerily silent. The Dunmer shook his head, standing from his seat to rub his forehead.

"Then Idayn knew, did she? And she told you?" Ocheeva murmured under her breath.

Dram paced around the room, pensive. Yes, he had known. He'd known ever since the murder happened. Dram heard the assassin enter, thought nothing of it, and he had been amongst the first to come across Liram Eralas's mutilated, writhing body. Yes, he had spoken to the guards, listened as they told him that it had been the Dark Brotherhood who'd done it. The guards feared what would occur if the public knew that a prominent statesman, the husband of the Nerevarine no less, had been slaughtered by an assassin. How effective was the government of Morrowind, nay, the empire of Cyrodiil, to protect even the most significant nobles from the threat of the Brotherhood? As ordered, Dram spoke nothing of the matter. He was content to know the truth, as he deserved as Lady Eralas's servant. He was content to console her as long as she required, so long as she never suspected the extent of his knowledge on the matter.

"It was my responsibility to keep quiet. I was there when it happened. I was a mere kitchen boy then, hardly her dearest manservant. She did not think me suspicious of having seen the murder; she hardly knew I worked for her husband's estate," the Dunmer explained.

"Then tell us where she would flee to! What she would do, if she ever found out! Tell us!" Ocheeva demanded. All of her fellow assassins turned their eyes on the Dunmer. He shuffled nervously in place.

"No. I told you, I don't want Lucien to harm her," he persisted.

"You think Lucien Lachance is stupid enough to kill the Nerevarine on a diplomatic mission?" Teinaava answered. Dram shirked back from the table and deeper into the center of the room.

"I, I-"

"If he finds her, she will sure be safer in his company than roaming these Oblivion-gate tainted wilds of Cyrodiil," Telaendril suggested.

"Oh, yes, Lucien harbored _me_ for a time, whenever I was but a poor street urchin in the-"

"I swear, Antoinetta, the Tenets are all that keep me from lopping that pretty head of yours clear off your shoulders," the wood elf woman professed.

"For all her foolishness," Ocheeva added, "Telaendril is very right."

Dram shrugged, "I- I, I don't know what to say. Lady Eralas, she had no specific plan of action. She never knew that she would come to Cyrodiil and find out such truths."

"You know her best," Ocheeva said, "Where do you think she would go?"

"Oh, lord, anywhere than Cyrodiil," Dram huffed, "Though I doubt she could travel all the way back to Morrowind, unarmored and unprepared as she was. And there is no other country she would go for refuge."

"So she must travel out of Cyrodiil, while remaining in it," Ocheeva considered.

"The door," Gogron noted.

All of the assassins faced the orc. His face lit up with a large, dopey grin. Gogron theorized, "Well, 'member when Ungolim sent his latest report to the Sanctuary."

"No one read it," Teinaava uttered.

"Wait, Gogron, can you _read_?" Telaendril asked.

"_Shhh_," Ocheeva snapped, "Gorgon, go on."

"He said that we should be careful if we need to see him in Bravil. He said that on the- the lake, there was a door that opened, and lunatics and monsters were coming out of it."

"On the water?" Dram inquired, confused.

"On land."

"An _island_," Ocheeva clarified, "Continue."

"Well, there was a doorway, a portal there. And it led somewhere, not into a building. It was a magical portal, to another, uh, uhm, another world," Gogron scratched his chin. Ocheeva smiled.

"That, perhaps, is precisely the information that Lucien Lachance would benefit from," the Argonian woman said.

--

Lucien dismounted Shadowmere, and glanced across Niben Bay from just outside Bravil's city gates. A small island, merely a spec in his vision, situated far out on the misty water, was visible at the lake's center. The morning was solemn and cool, the air refreshingly damp. It was a beautiful place for respite.

But the damned island didn't look promising.

"I see you secured me the canoe I requested," Lucien said. Leaning against the outer wall of the city, Ungolim scoffed, gazing out towards the water.

"Remember that the Brotherhood does not grant amnesty to the Morag Tong, or any of its agents. Do not betray my leniency," he ordered. Lucien bowed his head.

"Never, Listener," he answered.

"There is madness past that gate," the Bosmer added, "You are not to pass through it. Not even to retrieve Lady Eralas. If she crosses the threshold, let damnation be hers."

"Never, Listener," Lucien repeated. But Ungolim's expression hardly conveyed certainty of Lucien's words.

"I do not see _why_ you must rescue her. Has your little ward Druzelle swayed you so?"

The Imperial laughed derisively, "Hardly. Miss Dissentia yet ranks amongst my lesser minions, however talented she may be. I go to retrieve Lady Eralas to prove that it is not so easy to evade the Brotherhood, and that we have the superior resources to locate her, wherever she may run."

"Your tone is scarcely convincing, Lachance."

"Is that because you know I killed Lord Eralas?" Lucien countered. Ungolim's frown deepened the wrinkles on his face. The Imperial leaned in close to the Listener, hissing, "If I can slaughter Liram Eralas, have you any doubt that eviscerating his wife will be any more difficult?"

"_I do_," Ungolim said, "I have doubt not because you cannot do it but because you _could_. I worry namely because killing the Nerevarine is a politically disastrous move and it will draw unnecessary attention to our guild. I worry because if you do, I may be in a position to strip you of your rank and spoon your bowels out before your eyes, should anyone find out about it."

The Wood Elf grabbed the collar of Lucien's shirt.

"I would prefer if you end her life. She is clearly causing much disruption, as well as distracting you, if your interest in her activity is so keen. Do you think I _like_ that a Tong agent is publicly traipsing around Cyrodiil interfering with the lives of my assassins?"

"I don't understand," Lucien said.

"Don't you _get_ it?" Ungolim snapped, "I want you to kill her, Lucien, and not cause a scene."

"You're telling me to stage a natural death."

"I am _advising _you as to the _significance_ of it, yes. I cannot officially condone it," Ungolim stated. Lucien frowned.

"Give me the order, Listener, and I will do as you speak."

"Don't put me in that position, _Speaker_."

Lucien tore away from the Listener's grasp and began on the north road, unresponsive.

--

Druzelle awoke, her forehead throbbing. The night had not treated her well, she knew. She certainly remember enough of it to know that was the truth.

She rolled deeper into the sheets and emitted a groan. She eyes Martin beside the door, peeking his head inside the room. He asked softly, "Are you feeling better?"

"Just _peachy_," she moaned, rubbing her brow, "What _happened_ last night?"

"You got drunk."

"Thank you, Lord Obvious."

Martin shook his head, "You were vomiting and stumbling outside the bar, in the snow. You drank yourself into oblivion."

"If only getting into Oblivion was so easy," she grumbled. Martin frowned.

"I tried to stop you."

"I know," Druzelle sighed, "And I thank you."

"What, no cynical response?" Martin asked. Druzelle pushed the sheets away from her face and smiled.

"Perhaps Idayn wore off on me before she left," the assassin figured, gasping, "_Idayn!_ Is there any word?"

"Lucien went after her this morning," Martin answered, "I told him how imperative it was to get Lady Eralas back, given how tiresome the Countess's lessons have become for you."

"Not to mention that I have a point to prove and a gamble to win if Idayn gets back," Druzelle snickered, "You know, _if _she gets back. I fear she ran all the way back to Morrowind."

"Lucien didn't seem to think so," Martin replied. Druzelle turned over in bed, satisfied with his answer.

"Good. I hope he didn't say anything too stupid to make her leave. Otherwise he'll never get her back. She holds a grudge better than I do my alcohol."

"Then you'd best get some rest and sleep the drunkenness off before she gets back, if she ever does. She's bound to return with a vengeance," Martin chuckled.

--

Lucien rowed the canoe across the hoary surface of the bay. With each dip of the oars into the water and each rhythmic sweep of his arms, he sailed forward. The air was rife with mist, and Lucien could hardly see where he was headed except for the vague green blur that grew larger as he paddled. Almost unexpectedly, the keel of his canoe thudded on the rocky shore, and Lucien hopped out of the vessel onto dry land.

What he wouldn't do to hunt Idayn, he mused.

The island was blessedly small, and before Lucien even began to scope out his surroundings, he spotted a red flicker of fabric from the corner of his eye. He raised his gaze to the stony ledge ahead of him, and saw the Dunmer woman poised there on her knees, as if she were prepared to pounce upon him if he drew closer. Her hand stroked the hilt of the knife at her belt, and the shimmer of finely fletched arrows glittered over her shoulder.

"Am I to have no reprieve of you, Mr. Lachance?" She murmured. Despite the ferocity of her posture, her voice was meek and melodic. It sounded as forlorn as the chords of a lone violin.

"You've been gone for over two weeks now," He answered, "You lend yourself to suspicion, and Ocato to fear."

"You've spoken with him, then?" Idayn questioned, a touch of distaste in her tone. Lucien took a few steps forward, shrugging as he walked.

"No, but it is not unreasonable to imagine it so. Druzelle is terribly unhappy that the Countess has took up her lessons in your absence, and I have no doubt that she has communicated her displeasure to more people than the priest and Jauffre," Lucien explained. The Dunmer snorted scathingly.

"And so you have traveled here on Druzelle's account. I cannot think you are so generous, even to your subordinates," Idayn responded. Lucien laughed softly under his breath, skirting the pebbly path towards the ledge that Idayn perched on. As he ascended slowly to the top, he threw his head back, sniffed the dewy air, and considered his response.

"You are an agent of the Morag Tong," he decided, "Who is to say that you did not flee to convene with your fellow agents, outside the safety of Morrowind, plotting assassinations that are the rightful business of the Dark Brotherhood? As a Tong agent, crossing the border of your homeland is grounds enough for me to capture or kill you. I do not. I consider you a _guest_, if you will, to the hunting grounds of the Brotherhood. But simply because you are a guest does not mean you enjoy the full extent of my trust."

"You accuse me of convening with my fellow agents, under the pretense of the immense suffering that knowing you murdered my husband has caused me?" Idayn replied. When Lucien met her at the top of the ledge, she stood, her expression pained. In sadness, Lucien realized, she was even more beautiful.

"Agents are capable of such things," Lucien replied. Idayn stared in disbelief, shaking her head fervently.

"You do not think my husband's murder has broken my heart? You think I would use that pain to mask a meeting, some secret conference? Do you think so little of my suffering?" Idayn expressed. Lucien merely watched as she stroked her forehead, as if she was dizzy.

He seized the opportunity. Lucien pushed her off the ledge, and she shrieked. She plummeted off the rocks and fell into the water below, flailing beneath him.

He could stage a drowning. He could make it appear as if it were a murder.

Lucien cast aside his cloak and leaped off the rocks. He landed with a splash, and immediately locked his hands around Idayn's neck as she struggled against him. He held her underwater, feeling as her throat tightened and she lost her breath. It was perfect. It was the ideal assassination.

But as life sapped from her, he released his hands.

He was too selfish to murder her.

Before she could lose consciousness, Lucien released his hands from her. When she bobbed to the surface, gasping for air, he held her against his shoulder and swam back to the island. Shock prevented Idayn from resisting him. When they reached the shore, Lucien left her on the rocks and went to retrieve his dry cloak from where he had left it. Upon his return, he found Idayn wheezing for air, coughing, and sobbing.

"Why did you run away after I told you, Idayn?" Lucien demanded. He could not lower himself to sympathy for her; he feared it.

She could not manage words. He again ordered, "Tell me, Idayn."

A few moments passed before she could collect herself enough to speak. Eventually she said, "I- I knew it had been the Brotherhood's undoing. I had seen their handiwork before, studied it. I played the fool, t-told myself it was not the Brotherhood who killed him. I wasn't even… even distraught that you were his murderer."

Idayn sprawled across the shore on her side, desperate for air. She wept, "How could I feel so passionately for a man who murdered my husband?"

The Dunmer's crying subsided. She was wearied from the struggle and from her emotional turmoil. Lucien watched as her heaving slowed and her body loosened. When it did, he approached her gently, and laid the dry cloak over her shoulders. He knelt next to her.

"Tomorrow we travel to the Imperial City, and then on to Bruma," he announced coldly, "Now get up, so we may sail back to Bravil for the evening."

She labored to get on her feet, and quietly stumbled for the canoe. Lucien pushed the canoe out onto the water and sank into the seat behind her, lifting the oars once more. The journey back to Bravil would be silent and long.

--

Author's Note:

Again, I apologize for any grammatical errors; please point them out to me if you find any. As always, I'm also open to any suggestions you may have.

Happy reading (and Thanksgiving!)

-Valah

_apeacockpersian_


	5. Chapter 5

**CONTUMELY**

**Chapter Five**

The Imperial City's cobblestones glistened silvery-gray in the fleeting light of the evening. Beside Lucien, Idayn gazed at the guard towers above her, silently admiring a city she insisted she loathed. _Well_, Lucien considered, _she claims to loathe many things, myself included, and now she desires… well, she desires me_.

She would scarcely draw closer than three feet from him as they moved through the city, searching for lodging for the night, a place to slink into the new, dry clothes slung over their still-damp arms. The road from Bravil had been arduous and miserable, spent on horseback with soggy boots and weary eyes. Idayn had not spoken a word since Lucien had spared her from drowning. He hadn't tried to pry words from her lips, but the assassin was beginning to dislike the silence. More than anything, he wanted validation that her admission of love- or perhaps lust- wasn't a product of the light-headedness of nearly being drowned to death.

Or even if it was one of her many ploys.

Was she manipulating him?

Lucien shed his paranoia as he followed behind Idayn. The Dunmer had strayed ahead as he lost himself in thought, and now rounded the corner and into an inn. Lucien caught the door just as it was closing and leapt inside behind Idayn.

"Your thirty gold," Idayn noted to the innkeeper, passing him a sizeable handful of coins. He nodded back, glancing nervously as Lucien glided in, and pointed to the stairs. Idayn peered over her shoulder at the other assassin, frowning, before she ascended the steps with him in tow. Once inside, she alighted on the edge of the bed, folding her hands in her lap. Her carriage was so sickeningly blue-blooded. It made Lucien stir with anger and a sudden, nearly unwarranted longing.

"You haven't spoken a word since Bravil," Lucien growled.

"You have asked nothing of me, Mr. Lachance, and so I had no words to offer you," she returned smoothly. The assassin crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his back against the armoire across from the bed.

"Pardon me, _Lady Eralas_, but a spontaneous profession of love hardly motivates me to initiate conversation with you," he retorted.

"Then you have no reason to criticize me for my silence, unless it is my own initiative that you critique. Is that it, Mr. Lachance? Do you truly expect _me_ to initiate conversation?" Idayn asked. Her voice was hollow, and it made Lucien's skin tingle.

"I just want to be sure that your… _admission_ was a ploy," He replied. Idayn shook her head.

"And lie to you?"

"Then you _do_ love me?"

Idayn's lips tightened, "I never said that I loved you."

"If memory served-"

"I said that I _felt passionately_ for you," she corrected, "Which is scarcely to say that I love you."

"Then it is lust you feel?"

"No, it is… _attraction_, I suppose," Idayn decided, running a hand over her head, "I feel as if we are similar spirits, you and I, in a way I never- I never felt with my husband."

"Your husband was not an assassin," Lucien flatly responded. Idayn sighed.

"I have known many assassins, Mr. Lachance, and I have never known a common thread with them outside of our profession as pressing as that I know with you. You see, you miss my meaning," Idayn explained, "When I first fled Bruma, it was to wash my mind of my husband's death. Yet as the ferryman rowed his boat towards the isle in Niben Bay, to bring me somewhere that I could enjoy solitude, I recognized that what ached my heart was not my husband, but the realization that I shared something… something _intangible_ with you that my husband never did."

"So what is this _intangible_ something?" Lucien inquired sharply. Idayn shrugged, bowing her head to collect her thoughts.

"I cannot know," she yielded at last. The Imperial laughed derisively.

"See? Then it must be insignificant."

"I hardly think an intuition strong enough to drive me from Bruma all the way to Bravil is insignificant," Idayn countered. She lifted her heels off the floor and stretched out across the bed. The chocolate silk of her dress spilled over the crest of her hip and concealed the frail cylinders of her wrists. When Lucien's eyes finally rose to meet hers, he realized she was staring unblinkingly at him, and her orange orbs threatened to cleave him asunder.

"Whenever we spoke at the tavern that night, I told you that you had been unfair. You pried into my life, told me what you knew of it and demanded what you didn't. I suggested that you told me nothing of yourself, to which you said I hadn't asked," she murmured, "Now, Mr. Lachance, I am asking."

"So the tables turn," Lucien snarled, "Fine, ask as you will. You will be disappointed."

"First, I must have your word that you will not refuse me an answer," Idayn prompted. Lucien gritted his teeth.

"For what it is worth, you have it."

Idayn contested, "That is suitable. Now, I wish to ask you, why do you hunt me as you have with such fervor?"

"You already know the answer," he snapped, "It is to protect Druzelle's interests and those of the Dark Brotherhood."

"That would explain why you hunt me at all, but it does not account for the passion you exhibit in so doing, as I see it. Do you see something in Druzelle that you must go to such lengths to protect? Or is it the hunt itself that thrills you so?" Idayn asked. Lucien paced the chamber, irritated.

"I would tell you it _is_ simply the hunt I savor," he confessed, "But it is knowing the prize is so unobtainable that drives me."

"I have not been… wanted since my husband died," Idayn whispered. A sudden, immense sadness washed over her, rendering her usual misery something somehow beautiful. The Dunmer sprawled out across the sheets, uttering, "And here you are, having chased me to the ends of Cyrodiil, and you have after all this time finally triumphed. The hunt has ceased; the prize is yours. I am powerless to deny you."

The Imperial's pulse jumped.

"I am empty," she lamented, "I am a hero, loved by all and known by none. Would you lie with me one night, assassin, so that I may feel as if I belong to someone again?"

Ultimately, it was _he_ who was powerless to deny her.

--

Druzelle stood on the stairs to Cloud Ruler Temple, playing absentmindedly with her fingernails as a fresh flurry of snowflakes tumbled down onto her mahogany hair. Martin brushed them from her locks and rolled his shoulders, looking out onto the snowy landscape ahead of them.

"Do you think Lucien found her?" Martin asked. Druzelle huffed.

"I hope not," she brooded, "Given the Countess's lessons, I've had it with these etiquette games. I certainly don't need any more from Idayn."

"She could be in danger, you know," Martin frowned.

"She's the Nerevarine. It probably isn't anything she can't handle," Druzelle answered, "And if it is, well, I'm sure she'd be happy to join her husband in death."

"You can't possibly hate her _that_ badly," the priest replied, and Druzelle chuckled bitterly.

"Well, unless I can prove to her when she returns that I'm a changed woman and she can go on her merry way back to Morrowind, then I'm not going to hope for any less than her untimely death," Druzelle said flatly, scratching her chin, "You know, that actually isn't a bad idea."

"Oh, for Akatosh's _sake_, don't try to assassinate her," Martin exclaimed. Druzelle stood from the stairs and shook the snow from her skirt. She then placed her hands firmly on her hips, thrusting her hair over her shoulder with utter confidence.

"No, I have an even better idea," she announced, "We're going to have a party. And _you_ are going to help me organize it."

"Oh, Gods."

"We're going to prove, once and for all, that I am _perfectly able_ to act like a lady," Druzelle decided, "We will throw the finest celebration that Idayn has ever seen, and I'm going to act as hostess."

"And who are you going to invite, exactly? As it stands, all the lords and ladies of Cyrodiil think of you as a ruffian!" Martin declared. Druzelle shook her head.

"I'll invite the people _I _know, so there's utterly no reason for me to fear complete failure," she countered, "I'm inviting the Sanctuary."

"_You _are inviting _the Dark Brotherhood_ to a party." Martin mumbled in disbelief. Druzelle nodded curtly.

"Yes, I am, and I'm sending out the invitation today. In one week, we will throw the greatest celebration that the siblings of Sithis have ever seen and pray that Idayn shows up by then. Now, we raid Jauffre's desk for stationary and a quill," Druzelle proclaimed before she began marching off to the temple. Martin buried his forehead in his hands.

"Nine divines," he prayed, "Forgive my beloved Dee for her stupidity, and in advance for any homicides that occur because of it."

--

He knew he should have just killed her.

The morning light poured in through the drapes and onto her jade-colored skin. Her black hair shimmered with a tinge of auburn in the sun, and tangled on the pillow top in wavy coils free from their usual knot. Lucien watched her lungs rise and fall and listened to her breath as she slept. She looked so vulnerable, he realized. But it did nothing to rouse his desire for her.

The hunt was over. He'd conquered her. And victory was bittersweet. She'd surrendered to him, or more properly, to her own sorrow. He never truly won.

"Awake, and dress," he ordered as he sat on the opposite side of the bed. He felt the sheets ruffle as she woke from her slumber, "We must travel back to Bruma as quickly as possible. Ocato may send his men if you do not report back to Countess Carvain."

The Dunmer slipped out from under the sheets, silently fetching her silk dress from the nightstand. She tugged it over her head and flattened it with her hands around her waist, not bothering to secure her hair behind her neck. Idayn looped her satchel over her shoulder and replaced her knife in the sheath at her thigh.

"I am ready," she answered. Her voice lacked its sorrow. It was merely empty now.

"Then let us set off, then," he replied, and opened the door of the chamber. Idayn glided out of the room wordlessly. She floated down the stairs and into the lobby of the inn. Lucien followed at a distance behind her, not able to rid himself of the feeling that he had ruined her.

--

"Let _me_ open it!" Antoinetta squealed as Telaendril shook the envelope above the human's head. The blonde woman leaped to try and reach it, yet when she did, the elf tossed it into the other hand and out of her reach. She pouted, "We don't _ever _get mail! Let me open it!"

"For Gods' sake, it's not from Lucien Lachance!" The wood elf hissed, "It's probably another inquiry from the local garrison telling us to be quiet around town."

"_Then why won't you let me open it?_" Antoinetta complained. Telaendril flicked the envelope across the room.

"Fine! Go read it, then. It's probably terribly insignificant, any way," she moaned. At the table in the corner, Ocheeva shook her head.

"When will you begin acting like the assassins you are?" She asked. The wood elf pulled up a stool and sat across from the Argonian woman, snickering.

"No one ever said that an _assassin _had to be _mature_," she replied.

"Don't tell Antoinetta that," Ocheeva grumbled.

"Telaendril! Telaendril!"

"What is it, you blonde-haired numskull?" The wood elf asked with sarcastic sweetness. The Imperial skipped over to the table and dropped the opened letter down, grinning broadly.

"_We_ have been invited to a party," she stated.

"Oh, so Telaendril and you think you're leaving the Sanctuary without my approval, then?" Ocheeva frowned.

"No, because you're invited too," Telaendril muttered as she read the letter, "It appears Druzelle is throwing a little celebration."

"And we're _all _invited!" Antoinetta exclaimed.

"Druzelle wants us to go to Bruma, to celebrate her graduation from etiquette lessons, I suppose," the wood elf reported, "Maybe it would be wise to leave some of the members behind, to watch the servant?"

"Ah, Dram. Yes, you are right," Ocheeva said.

"Then are we going? Is that a 'yes'?" Antoinetta chirped. The Argonian sighed.

"We haven't seen Druzelle in a while now," Ocheeva reasoned, "And I do not think that the Cheydinhal guards would mind if we vacated the city for a short holiday. I suppose we may go. Antoinetta, gather your things and inform the other members. We shall set out of the city this evening."

As the sound of the human's gleeful shrieks echoed down the hall, the wood elf leaned in closer to the Argonian and lowered her voice.

"You seem like you have better cause to go than to drink and dance," she noted. Ocheeva chuckled grimly.

"Consider this our chance to get back at the Morag Tong at last. Given the correspondence I sent him, I can guarantee that Idayn has returned to Bruma," she responded, "We'll be taking Dram with us. And he's going to tell Idayn Eralas exactly what happened to her husband that night."

--

Druzelle finished placing the last tray of grapes on the banquet just as Lucien Lachance came plodding into the great hall, covered in snow. Before she caught sight of Idayn, Druzelle swooped down on the Imperial and cupped his mouth with her hand.

"_This is a surprise. Go outside and don't let her in until I say_," She hissed. Lucien glanced around the hall, baffled, before he noticed the buffet and all of the individuals standing behind it. Druzelle shook her head fervently, "I'm going to _prove_ that I'm done with her _stupid _lessons and finish this little bet she set oh-so-long ago. Now get outside. Shoo!"

Druzelle released her hand from Lucien's mouth and began to push him back to the door. He stammered, "I- What… What in the name of _Sithis_ is the Cheydinhal Sanctuary doing here?! Are you going to end this in mass slaughter?"

"We're going to massively slaughter _you_ if you don't get the hell outside!" Druzelle hissed.

"How did you know that-"

"I've traveled all of Cyrodiil. I had a _pretty decent idea_ when you were coming back in town," she snapped, "Now get!"

"But-"

"_The cheese has been sitting out since yesterday! I didn't know exactly when you're come rolling into Bruma, you idiot, now go outside and let me answer the door like a proper young lady with manners before I spoon out your innards and serve them on my beautifully presented buffet!_" Druzelle seethed. Lucien backed up and out of the doorway. Druzelle crossed her arms wearily, tapping her shoe on the floor as she waited for a knock. Waited. Waited.

Ah, and then a _knock_.

Druzelle smiled as widely as she could, opening the door to see a vexed Lucien and a travel-weary Idayn standing outside in the howling blizzard. She gracefully offered, "You must be cold, my lord and lady. I beg you, partake of my _hospitality _and come in to warm those chilly limbs in my company."

"Is she… offering to have sex with us?" Idayn asked meekly.

"Just go inside," Lucien said. The Dunmer crept inside the temple, glancing around the eerily quiet room.

"Please, Lady Eralas, take a seat at our table. I would be most happy to serve you whatever you'd like to eat or drink," Druzelle said. The smile on her face was so wide that Idayn feared she had been affected by some brand of lunacy.

"A glass of sherry, please," Idayn asked. Druzelle curtsied and glided off into the next room. The Dunmer eyed Lucien, saying, "If this is a trap, be aware that I am armed."

"If it's a trap, then we are both in a great deal of trouble," Lucien concurred, "And do not fear. I am equally armed."

"Surprise!"

There was a resounding shout from the doorway. A crowd of people Idayn had never met swarmed the door. She cocked her head, now ever more perplexed, until from behind them Dram stumbled out alongside Druzelle.

"Now that you have returned to Bruma, I wanted to surprise you with an elegant celebration showcasing my abilities as a newly-branded woman of society," Druzelle tweeted, "I couldn't have _possibly _done this without you, Lady Eralas."

"I- well, thank you, Miss Dissentia," The Dunmer offered, "I am impressed by your sincerity. I suppose the bet is over, then?"

"Sure it- I mean, _yes, _I suppose it is, _my lady_," Druzelle corrected with a nervous chuckle, "I would like you to meet my friends from Cheydinhal, my… _brothers and sisters_. They have come to celebrate my recent accomplishments and thank you for your dedication."

"They've probably all drank themselves into a stupor by now," Lucien murmured to Idayn, "Damnit, I'm going to eviscerate Druzelle for ever inviting them into public. They won't lay a finger on you, particularly not in the presence of the Blades."

"And we won't have to, Lachance," Telaendril pronounced. The wood elf emerged from behind the crowd, pushing the servant Dram out into the center of the room, "Because your little _slave _has a little secret he'd like to share that is infinitely more sinister than any fate _we_ could have ever created."

_These fools,_ Lucien thought, _They've gathered in public and threaten the security of the Brotherhood! If they speak a single questionable word I will have no choice but to cut their blabbering tongues from their mouths._

"Go on, Dunmer," Ocheeva cooed.

"Wha-what is the meaning of all of this?" Druzelle asked, "How did Dram end up in _your _company?"

"We captured him in Cheydinhal as a prisoner, hoping it would please our _master_," Antoinetta batted her eyelashes. Lucien's stomach churned, and it was not out of hunger. In her black gown and with heavily bruised eyelids, she looked like a half-scorched and rotting potato. He cringed.

"Well, out with it, then!" Ocheeva insisted, but Druzelle leaped in front of her, snarling.

"You are _not_ going to ruin my big-"

"Now, Miss Dissentia, as the hostess of this party and as my student, you know better than to lose your composure," Idayn offered quietly. Druzelle bit her lip, glancing fleetingly at the Dunmer before she bowed her head cordially towards the Argonian.

"My lady, may I request that these… _proceedings_ occur after the celebrations?" Druzelle asked.

"Why don't you ask the Dunmer woman? This is _her_ servant, after all," Teinaava offered. Druzelle paused, hesitant, before she acquiesced.

"Very well. Lady Eralas, as my guest, and at the advice of my, eh, my colleague, would you wish to speak to him?" She asked. The Dunmer woman stood from her seat and nodded, kneeling down on the ground beside Dram.

"I would, and may he speak it freely, if it pleases those assembled here," Idayn responded, adding in a softer voice to her servant, "Speak, Dram. Let there be no secrets between us."

"And to tell you secrets that shall break your heart?" he cringed.

"It would break my heart more, Dram, if you did not trust me enough to tell me them at all," she promised, urging, "Please, make it known."

"I-my lady, I beg your forgiveness."

"I cannot forgive you unless I know the nature of the incident. Speak, so I may judge for myself if it is worthy of apology."

"Lady Eralas, I told them where to find you should you escape, as you… did, in time. I knew that you would, eventually. I knew that your husband's death still weighed on you. Because… I was there, my lady, when it happened. I was a servant to your husband. I was removing dishes from Lord Eralas's chambers, and when I returned, I-I spotted the assassin, stooped over him. I fled for my life. I am sorry," Dram confessed. Idayn shook her head.

"Why would you apologize for what you could not help but see?"

"I apologize because I did not tell you that I had," He replied. Idayn stood, addressing Druzelle.

"The bet is won, Miss Dissentia; you have taken the pains to provide my return with this celebration, and have acted in your best ability with a level of grace you would never have achieved before. You still have much work, but that is experience's lesson to teach, not mine. To that end," the Dunmer announced, "I shall offer you a final lesson. You must learn to forget, if not to forgive. You must learn that our pasts make us bitter people. They can ruin us, and when you are ruined, you will not act with respect to yourself, and therefore not to others."

"That is all? Good! Then let us dispel our differences over a keg of ale and some bottles of wine, shall we? Off to the banquet, then!" Druzelle clapped. As the assassins scattered, Idayn approached the Imperial woman, shaking her head sadly.

"This is your celebration, not mine. I will leave you to your festivities. The longer I remain here, the farther away from home I seem, and I have been parted from Morrowind long enough," Idayn murmured, "I must give Countess Carvain my thanks for housing me, and taking over your education in my leave."

"It will seem very quiet in the temple when you are gone," Druzelle laughed. But Idayn's expression remained pensive.

"You will become a greater hero than I was," the Dunmer assured her, "When you have battled these Oblivion gates and their demons to the end, know that you will always be welcome in my household, should you miss our quarrels."

"Yes, I suppose that after the fields of war grow empty with monsters, I'll need something or someone else to fight," Druzelle supplied. Idayn smiled. It was a fragile, almost sad grin, but there was an immense look of relief in her eyes.

"I must go. I shall gather my things, and bid the city of Bruma a final goodbye. Dram," Idayn beckoned her servant, "Collect my belongings, and bring them to the castle."

As he scurried off, the Dunmer woman curtsied, offering, "Farewell, Druzelle."

"And you, Lady Eralas," Druzelle bowed in return. The Dunmer woman turned on her heels, and as elegantly as she arrived, drifted out of the door. Martin chortled under his breath, leaning in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Don't think this is over," He reminded her, "Lady Eralas said you have a long way to go."

"She said it will take experience. You know what that means, don't you?" She grinned, "More adventures, more visits to the court, more run-ins with Ocato. My love, this means I have the chance to go adventuring once more. I feel liberated."

"The stakes will rise from here, Dee. I don't need to be a counselor of any kind to warn you of that."

"Perhaps we shall set another bet?" Druzelle proposed, but Martin waved a finger.

"Not before you beg forgiveness from Lucien for inviting all of the assassins here. I cannot think he will be pleased about it, and I wonder if you shall get to keep your head on your shoulders for it," Martin said, "Speak to him. Grovel, if your must."

Druzelle giggled, leaving Martin behind her as she scanned the room for Lucien Lachance. He was nowhere in sight.

--

Idayn stood on the crest of the mountain outside the temple, her eyes closed serenely as she felt the wintry breeze lift the tresses from her neck and ruffle the fabric of her dress. Her diamond wedding band had grown chilly with the frigid air, and heavy with the memories it represented. She heard the crunch of snow as someone approached her.

"You may request that Miss Dissentia send you with one of the Blades, if you struggle to carry all of my items, Dram," she announced.

"You think I would let you leave with no final goodbye?"

It was the assassin. Idayn opened her eyes and waited for him to approach. He stood next to her, overlooking the frosty canyon below. The sun threatened to set, and cast an orange light over the milky white of the snow. He said, "You are no longer sad."

"If that is a statement, then your observation is correct," she replied, "But where once there was a hole in my heart, there is nothing at all. I am empty. It is a precarious position to be in, though one that is not without the hope of a more promising future."

"What will you do when you return to Morrowind?" Lucien asked. Idayn smiled wistfully, and the sorrow of her eyes was cured, as if every time she struggled to smile it became more genuine. She trusted progressively more in her own happiness.

"I will manage the Eralas household, and remain as active as I may in Indoril politics. Eno Hlaalu has wished for me to take his place as the Grandmaster of the Morag Tong for a time now, and I feel as if I am prepared at last," she answered.

"I would hope that our experience would make you a more tolerant Grandmaster towards the Dark Brotherhood," Lucien smirked. Idayn chuckled lightly.

"My notion of justice has not wavered in my time here. I will execute your fellow agents as I see fit to their crimes. Those who avoid being captured deserve to be assassins, after all, and so long as they evade the Morag Tong they have my leniency," Idayn answered, "And what shall you do, Mr. Lachance? Aspire to become Listener?"

"I can barely listen to the complaints of my own Sanctuary, let alone those of my fellow Speakers. I should hope that advancement isn't inevitable," he said, digging his heel into the snow, "No, I think I shall keep my position. As wayward as she is, no matter how much you've tamed her, Druzelle is a promising assassin. I wish to develop her skills and bring her under my wing."

"Then I see we shall both be busy when the dust of Druzelle's lessons has settled." Idayn said. It was as if she had something more to say, but refused to. Lucien could sense what it was, her inquiry.

"We will not see each other again. Once you leave, you are a Morag Tong agent, and you are dangerously situated on the hunting grounds of the Dark Brotherhood," he said, murmuring, "But know that I will not pursue you. I never saw you go, if you are asked."

"You have my gratitude," Idayn professed. She laced her fingers in his, and Lucien felt the chill of her diamond ring freeze his palm, and then fade to warmth as the metal heated in his grasp. He leaned in, kissed the crest of her forehead, and released her from their grasp.

"Go, assassin. Morrowind awaits you," he urged. She curtsied, and gathered her skirts in her hands. He watched her meander down the cliff, and listened as Dram thundered out of the temple to catch up with his mistress, arms full of her personal effects shabbily packed into luggage and swung over the servant's arms. Lucien shivered, and rubbed his hands together. Between them, where only Idayn would ever know she left it, was her wedding ring.

The End

--

Author's Notes:

What began as an exercise in writing dialogue flowered into a story I never knew I'd write. I did not edit this thoroughly, so please, let me know of any mechanical errors you see so that I may fix them. As always, thank you for reading (and surviving the entirety of the story, given how terribly dissatisfied I was with the ending)!

Love always,

Valah


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